


Blood Magic, Fear and Faith

by OtakuElf



Series: Fear, Faith, and Friendship [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Andrastanism, Blood Magic, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Friendship, Healing, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:36:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 43
Words: 74,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Vael, Chantry Brother, is kidnapped and assaulted.  And what happens after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Capture

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to Lunamoth116, who is beta-ing this for me!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta-reader, Lunamoth116. Both for doing the beta-ing, but also for bringing me back to re-examine this story, and the one that followed.

Sebastian did not know what hit him. 

It was no secret that he spent time with the people of Lowtown as part of Chantry duties. Visiting the faithful sick, giving the comfort of Andraste to the dying, even running messages for Grand Cleric Elthina on occasion - all were duties, and none were too humble for an avowed brother of the Chantry. 

Granted, the archer spent time with the Champion’s companions, dressed in the armor his father had commissioned at his dedication to the church, and that he had once been the type of man who was dangerous to cross in a back alley. It was out of place with serving the Chantry in this way, not a part of Hawke’s dangerous and often frightening world.

And in the end, the Champion had nothing to do with why he was taken.

A great ringing came first, then the pain in his head, toward the back. Sebastian was cold, lying on the floor (he assumed), and the former rogue did figure out that he had been coshed. What disturbed him most was his inability to move. He was unbound, but arms and legs and head refused to move; he could not sit up. And someone was watching.

“Stand up.” It was a woman’s voice, not a cultured one; the accent was Lowtown.

Sebastian stood at the woman’s command, or his body did without his willing it. The room was one of those Lowtown hovels, fit into any available space. Sebastian had spent enough time in them on his visits to the faithful that Hawke’s uncle’s place was not the first he thought of. Light filled with dust shot down from louvered openings above. The floor was unfinished, wooden, and empty except for a badly-made bed against the wall. This was what Sebastian could see.

Standing in his Chantry robes, the pain crested, then receded; a low thudding kept beating and making it difficult to clear his head. And Sebastian did not move, did not escape, did not look around at the room, did not send his sight to find the source of the voice. “You are so handsome, Chantry.” The voice was a purr from behind him.

Sebastian felt fingers run through his hair, the bruise from the bludgeoning paining him, but movement was not an option. “Blood in your hair though.” The voice was thoughtful. “Useful, that. It means I do not need to take more.”

Stomach sick at the thought, Sebastian understood what those words meant. Blood magic, blood mage. What did she want? “After all, there are so many more useful things to do with your blood.” Fingers brushed downward to rub across his arse, then slid downward again along his hip and to the front, cupping the Chantry brother’s crotch. “Much more useful ways to serve me.” There was heat, and a tingling, and Sebastian hardened on her unvoiced command. Horror, cold and potent, swept through Sebastian from his head down to low-booted feet. It did nothing to remove the erection that those fingers were pulling at, playing with like a child with a kitten.

Sebastian’s mind stuttered into a canticle, grasping at whatever he could think of as most thought-provoking, but it did no good, did not help him to fight whatever the woman was using to control him. His captor was moving around him, a plain woman, black hair threaded with grey and braided back in the standard Kirkwall style. She squinted up at his face; she was a head shorter than he. “Beautiful eyes.” A finger smoothed across an eyebrow. “Lovely mouth.” Moving down, his lower lip was caressed. “Do you use that mouth on Elthina, Chantry? Or the Revered Mothers?”

Anger on behalf of Elthina was overwhelming, and those squinting eyes sharpened, as the woman listened, head cocked, to what Sebastian did not know. “No? Well, that is a waste. A mistake on her part that I will not duplicate. Kiss me.”

It was a simple order, and Sebastian could feel his body reaching to take the woman in his arms, his lips against hers, his tongue seeking and inviting. Even as he complied, Sebastian thought that the woman was not typical of Lowtown if she used “duplicate”. She had some education, then.

The blood mage was enjoying herself, but Sebastian most certainly was not. Shame, his vows, broken thoughts castigating himself for his inability to fight back, and all this while the mage moaned in enjoyment. Pulling back, she laughed. “Chantry, I think your vows are the least of your worries today. You will so thoroughly break them at my command.” A hand ran stubby fingers across his jaw. “And then I will make complete use of you.” The mage indicated and Sebastian’s eyes followed to a doorway, leading to a floor and a pale, pale body, heavily muscled and male, with a dish of darkness standing on the floor next to it.

“Poor pious Chantry brother. The despoiling of your purity will become my strength, and your blood will allow me to do so much to destroy those old women, those hags of the Chantry.” Venom and spite made the voice thin and high-pitched. “With what I will summon there can be only death and destruction for them. So much for their control of Kirkwall…so much for their support of Meredith, their domination of Orsino.”

It did not bode well, Sebastian thought, that she could apparently read some of what he was thinking. Though he did not think she would appreciate his thoughts on her education, and Lowtown commonness. Her access to his mind was not complete. Perhaps she was listening to his feelings instead of thoughts. There must be some way to use that. Sebastian worried at the thought, trying to find a flaw in this trap, much as he had done so long ago when dealing with his father’s orders, before he had become a member of the Chantry.

“Enough.” She had tired of waiting, or listening, or gloating. “You will take me against the wall, I think. To start, anyway. That would be interesting, in your Chantry robes, and you will give me pleasure, all the pleasure you have denied yourself with your foolish vows!”

A well-remembered behavior from those years of abandon before he had found peace. Sebastian pulled the woman into his arms and had her up against the wall, hands busy preparing, bringing pleasure, before opening his robes and taking his captor against the poorly whitewashed wall. Sebastian thrust into her, lifting her legs to wrap around his waist, aiming for the spot he knew would bring her. Even in the throes of orgasm there was no relaxation of the control of his body, no way that he could fight her, kill her, escape her. Her groans of pleasure subsided, and then the order came, “Again!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not find rape/non com exciting. I find it frightening, personally, and wrote this response to a post on the Dragon Age Kink Meme because it got stuck in my head. Not so much the rape, but the aftermath, and how others in Sebastian's acquaintance would react to it, given their experiences.
> 
> I am, as always, interested in your comments or suggestions.


	2. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian spends time in reflection.

Sebastian lay on his back. The unmade bed was moderately clean, or had been until the blood mage had taken him on it the first time. She was gone now, in the next room Sebastian thought from the noises. Perhaps she was disposing of the body he had seen through the doorway. It was that of the thug who had brought him to her, and possibly that was a fair fate for one who kidnapped Chantry members, or anyone else for that matter, and delivered them to a blood mage. 

Sebastian’s pain shifted with his thoughts, or perhaps with his concentration. Even in his wildest days of casual sex with multiple partners his jaw had never ached this much. Feeling his tongue, which invariably made him aware of how much of his mouth it filled, brought awareness of the rawness, the sharp abrasion from lapping and licking.

The naked man, cold and naked, could close his eyelids now. He thanked the Maker for this. The blood mage had stated that she loved his eyes, and when he had closed them without thought, she had used her control to prevent that action. There had been agony in drying eyeballs, the blue being swallowed up by the red. The mage liked blood, the brother mused, but not when it obscured his “pretty eyes”.

Blinking because he could, Sebastian took advantage of the mage’s absence to thank the Maker and His Bride that it had not occurred to the woman to include scatological kinks in his humiliation. The man had desperately shifted his thoughts to strong memories, building a wall with his grandfather, or learning the truth of the Chant by heart, whenever the idea of showers of urine or meals of excrement had occurred.

Sebastian wondered about bed sores. He was lying on his back on the unmade bed now, though he had spent the night before on the floor. How long did a bedsore take to start? Memories of assisting in the physical care of the Chantry parish invalids flashed into his mind, of helping to roll the person while spreading a clean sheet beneath the sufferer. Even the remembrance of working under instruction from the Chantry’s healers to clean immobile forms or provide bedpans for those who could not get out of their beds to use the chamber pots brought diversion. No job was too humble.

It had taken Sebastian years to understand that, comprehension only coming when Sebastian had finally accepted his calling to the Chantry. Pain again, it was everywhere. A flash of memory, of feeding strong beef broth to an elderly, toothless man made his stomach cramp. The thought of salty strong stock, or the texture of bread in his mouth made Sebastian realize that he had no idea how long he had been in the blood mage’s power.

Sleep had been short and not restful. Even when the blood mage had slept that first night, her hold had not wavered, and Sebastian had lain on the floor by the wall, unable to do anything but blink. For all the things the woman had demanded of him that first day, she had refused him any release until just before she took to her bed for sleep. Holding an erection for so long, his balls aching with the inability to climax, each thrust had become a torment. “Oh, you’re not getting me knocked up, Chantry,” the woman had said at one point. “No chance of that!”

The woman’s casual words, “Cum for me, Chantry” as he lay by her instruction naked on the cold wooden floor had produced a hideous series of spasms unlike anything Sebastian had ever felt, or wished to feel again. No touch, no slide of hand on member, just pain and his penis jerking, and pearly semen cooling on his body as he spent the night trying desperately to think of a way out.

Last night Sebastian had not slept, had lain on this bed with his tormentor in his arms, “protecting” her. At least he had been warm, what with her body heat and the coarse gray blanket on top of them. Sebastian was not sure whether the warmth had been worth it, with the coarseness almost grating on sensitive, abused flesh.

And now she was gone for a time, after allowing him to use the chamber pot, to clean himself under her control. Sebastian could give her that: the blood mage was clean, though still stinking of a metallic bloodlike smell that clung to her. The bed, too, was not dirty, merely disheveled. Sebastian wondered why she had not instructed him to clean, to make the bed, all tasks he could have performed rather than lying here, waiting.

Waiting was another horror. Waiting, his body aching from positions a man was not meant to hold for so long, the marks that she had left on his body as evidence of her possession of him sharp and aching as well.

“Chantry,” she had purred as he thrust down into her, “I wonder if I could ride you as I slit your throat. Would your body keep pumping into me? Servicing me even as you die?”

Waiting for the moment when she would take her knife to his throat, tears of blood weeping from the cut instead of the tears his eyes could not weep without her command; Sebastian could have laughed at that fancy, if he had the ability. He knew that his blood would spurt out, pouring into the bowl the blood mage had set in the corner of the room for Sebastian to look at, an added touch of cruelty.

He wondered if she had gone to the Chantry. “I have watched you, Chantry, in the pulpit, delivering the sermon. Such a lovely voice you have. Such convincing words you spoke. Can’t use them now, can you? Like the day when you took my confession and told me to repent of my sins.“

That had been when she hit him with sharp-knuckled fists, unskilled fists, but still leaving bruises, though they were not noticeable with all the other pain. Sebastian did not even remember her. Out of all of the congregation attending services in the Chantry, this one person had passed by without his notice, watching him, hating him, making plans. Sebastian did not remember her.

Were they all like this, the congregation? Were the Sisters, the Revered Mothers like this in the silence of their hearts? Sebastian knew that he was impure, but he had tried to look at the good in others instead of dwelling on the darkness in himself. The Brother thought that was the will of the Maker. Had he been so very wrong?

Sebastian lay still, in pain, alone with his thoughts.


	3. The Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Torment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to my beta, Lunamoth116.

The mage returned. No, Sebastian refused to think of her simply as a mage. The Blood Mage returned. She was heralded by something else. Sebastian lay, still, unmoving on the bed except for the blinking of his eyes. Today despair had set in. Sebastian had mentally recounted past sins, ones he had repented of, and for which he had been given absolution. Now he was working on current sins, ones yet to be resolved.

Current evils were petty for the most part, except for pride (always a danger), and lust. Sebastian was feeling his punishment for both pride and desire now. He and Elthina had discussed at length why desire demons were not called lust demons. Sebastian, not a scholar as Elthina was, pointed out that lust was an old, old Starkhaven word for “joy”. “Ah,” Elthina had replied, “how sad that ideas that are not sins, or evils in themselves or in their lesser forms should become so all-encompassing as to form demons. The spirits were the Maker’s first children, you know. But that does not mean that we should do more than aspire to the nobler ideals. It is one of the reasons why mages are so feared. Because they can accept a demon into their soul in exchange for power, and thus lose their humanity.”

Sebastian wondered if resignation or apathy demons came into it. Were those lumped under sloth instead? The bed moved sharply. Sebastian could not move his head to look at the large body that had bounded up onto the bed with him. Heavy, it was, and still moving as he felt a cold nose on his leg, moving up his body until a pair of golden eyes peered down into his. A cat, and a large one, rangy and scarred, missing part of one ear. Sebastian did not dislike cats. Just the look of this one warned him that a scratch behind the ears might be taken amiss. 

The animal turned to show his rear - deliberately, Sebastian thought - before leaping heavily from the bed. Sebastian could hear a lapping from the doorway to the room, and shuddered to think of the bowl from which the cat was eating. After eating, the cat came back to the bed and spent time in grooming where Sebastian could see. He saw that it was male, a tom, in an obvious fashion. The cat settled down next to Sebastian on the bed, watching him while cleaning all-too-sharp claws. It was close enough that Sebastian could feel the hairs of his hip rise, and it could touch him, his naked body, should it choose to do so. Sebastian could do nothing about that in his current state of immobile. That the cat chose to stare at Sebastian’s groin was nerve-wracking.

A door banged with the blood mage’s return. She crooned with delight over the mangy animal, before commanding Sebastian to tend to his own body's needs. When clean and emptied, Sebastian found a ladleful of water held to his mouth. He was so dry. So tired and dry and hungry, that the lukewarm water vanished into the inside of his mouth, though Sebastian could feel a small amount trickle down his parched throat. “Poor Chantry,” the blood mage crooned over him, much as she had over the cat, “left all alone with nothing to do, and no company but Blood.”

Blood. What a horribly appropriate name, considering what the cat had been drinking. The blood mage, assuming his interest, went on, “Chantry, you would be very interested in what I saw in Hightown today. The Chantry has put up a bill on their board asking for information on your whereabouts. ‘When last seen’ and so forth. You did not tell me you were a prince. And of Starkhaven, yet!”

Apparently she expected some reply, but Sebastian had no use of his mouth nor an inclination to comment. Keeping his eyes open to avoid the punishment he had received before, the man watched her with no interest, and little fear, standing still as though kept in the stocks. Or stiller.

A hand on his forehead. “Sleep!”

…

There was no moment of passing before Sebastian was somewhere else. The room was still the room, but it was different. For one thing, the bed was perfectly made, something the man had not seen since he had been in the blood mage’s power. “Welcome to the Fade, Chantry.” The voice of the blood mage was once again a purr.

Reaching up to his face, the woman took a handful of something and pulled the red glob out of his mouth. There was pain, as though she pulled his teeth and bones out through the skin, but when that faded Sebastian could move his head, his neck, and his mouth. “I should not be here,” Sebastian’s brogue came through strongly.

“Foolish, silly man.” She was standing before him looking about with disinterest. “You walk the Fade whenever you sleep. Besides, your body is not here.”

Sound was deadened in this place, but then squeaking, what was that? A small flat whiteness crawled out from the shadows under the bed. If Sebastian squinted enough he could make out a masculine, muscular form, a man if seen as totally flat and all color bleached out. “What?” Sebastian’s confusion filled the air.

The blood mage’s disinterest included the squeaking disembodiment. “Luko.” Such boredom in that voice. “He _will_ keep hanging about here. All too soon a demon will get him, and then No More Bother!”

“Are there many demons here?” Sebastian’s brogue was even stronger in the Fade. 

What did that say about him? But the blood mage was answering, “There are a lot of demons here. Much more than I saw in Antiva or Rivain. I expect a like number would be about in Tevinter with all the blood magic going on there. We won’t be here long enough to attract one this time.”

The whiteness squeaked at her; Sebastian could not make out any words, but it seemed the blood mage understood, and gave it a glare. “Be off! Or I’ll set Blood on you!”

A frightened squawk and the creature, ghost, Luko disappeared back under the bed.

Sebastian looked down at a body that was now used to being still. Formal Chantry robes, but those flickered and then were gone. Looking up Sebastian saw that this room no longer had a ceiling. A bathtub hung unattached to anything above the next room, without any support. The lines of each wall were off as well. Guaranteed, no one in Lowtown used a plumb bob that Sebastian could see, but each of these standing walls leaned into each other in an eerie manner. The sky was a bronze color, as though a huge fire had thrown light and smoke upward. The room, the sky, the blood mage, and the cat, which still sat on the perfect bed, shimmering as though it were on fire, all had a nightmare quality.

Sebastian stood, naked again, but bound by chains of crystalline red that snaked around his limbs, his torso, even his cock. Blood bound him even now, even here in the Fade. “Well,” the blood mage gesticulated, waving in a vague direction, ”your Maker’s city is over in that direction. None of us are stupid enough to go there now.”

“What did you tell me?” His question was over loud here. “In confession?”

Smirking, she answered, “Why, I told you that I wanted a man. A goodly, devout Andrastian.” The purr had taken on a malicious tinge.

“You suggested that I might meet such a man at the Chantry. Doing charitable work for the poor. I suggested that a fine and upstanding Chantry Brother such as yourself might need a wife. Someone to tend to his needs. You told me that you were…unavailable.” The voice turned spiteful. “You have become so much more available, have you not? Though you have become a bit dull. It is as though you have given up, Chantry. Not so exciting from my point of view.”

Closing his eyes, Sebastian thought back to the countless offers he had received. So many woman and not a few men, flirting with him, propositioning him outright, though every one of the men and women knew he was sworn celibate. Sebastian had made it a policy to accept every gift in the name of the Chantry, gently and politely. It was a behavior learned from the Chantry Sisters and Revered Mothers who dealt with similar situations. He looked searchingly at the plain face before him, but still found nothing familiar, nothing to spark an idea for how to talk to this woman, to persuade her to release him.

She was looking searchingly at him as well. “You -” it was accusatory “- were Prince of Starkhaven! A prince! And now you’re a Chantry lickspittle, praying over dying paupers!”

Sebastian nodded. “Yes.”

The blood Mage was all but frothing. “All that power, wasted. Thrown away!”

Sebastian shook his head, trying to emphasize his sincerity. “There is greater power in following the will of the Maker. No task is too humble. It took me years to understand that. The Maker wanted me here. Otherwise I would still be in Starkhaven.” Sebastian avoided thinking that he would most likely be dead otherwise.

The grief that stabbed through him was unexpected. The blood mage’s eyes rolled up in her head. Sebastian wondered if his fear and grief were addictive. “That was much better than what you’ve been feeling lately,” the woman gloated. “You have lost someone.”

“My family.” Sebastian did not know if the information would help, possibly make her see him as a person instead of as an object.

Licking her lips, the blood mage said thoughtfully, “I killed mine. Got a lot of power from it too. I wonder...” She ran her fingers up the back of his neck, through the red hair. “I could enthrall you. You would be mine, worship only me, do my bidding without hesitation…” Then she added thoughtfully, “It would require a good deal more blood to totally bind you. And I had plans for your blood. I could be a princess.”

“Even giving that they would accept me back.” This was the literal truth; Sebastian felt dirty at the thought of lying. Misdirection felt like lying. “Why would you think I’d be allowed to choose my wife?” Not exactly a lie; it was a question for the woman. “And why would they accept me back when they know I am avowed to the Chantry? No one likes an oathbreaker.”

Rage contorted her plain features. “Useless, then.” The destruction of her pleasant fantasy had distressed her more than anything he had seen so far.

Slapping her hand up on his forehead, she commanded, “Wake!”

…

Sluggish, and tired, so tired. Sebastian was back in his body, still standing, but the chains of blood were gone, or at least not visible. He struggled to retain the memory of where he had been, forcing himself to go over their words, his and the blood mage's while in the Fade. It seemed a dream, or a bad memory, but he needed to remember. The memory of the water he’d been allowed before the Fade was only that, a memory. “Now, Chantry.” The blood mage was abrupt. “Time to earn my good will back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you think of it, who doesn't want to be royalty? Except for Sebastian, of course...


	4. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian is rescued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

Sebastian had lost track of the days and of time in general. He was watered, washed himself on command, and spent his moments pleasing the blood mage. When her threats of thralldom did not elicit the terror she desired, the blood mage looked to other ways to create a reaction from her captive. 

Sebastian’s prayers had become a simple statement: “Maker help me. Please. Maker release me. ”

The creature, as he thought of the scarred tom now, which shared the blood mage’s quarters and the bed, spent hours staring at him. It had been frightening to begin with, with those sharp claws and teeth, fed on a diet of who knew what, and Sebastian naked and unable to defend himself. 

The pain was beginning to fade again. It was as though Sebastian was inside his body, present, but not a part of it. He was watching himself, his reactions, the things the woman did to him, but more as though it was happening to someone else. At one point there had been carving with a knife, the stone one the blood mage told him she would cut his throat with. What letters or symbols she had engraved upon his flesh, he did not know.

Unaware of the breaking door, his body following her last command to fuck her and not stop until she instructed him to, there was no relief when the blood mage was pulled off of him. His body continued.

…

It had taken them days to track down Sebastian’s kidnapper. Elthina had contacted Hawke and asked his help in finding her lost Brother. Varric’s rumor harvesters had heard of a missing thug, no one of any importance, who had been shacking up with a very scary lady. It was one of many such pieces of information, and Hawke and his people had checked out each one.

Aveline and Hawke broke down the door in the next room; it was not locked, but it was warped and stuck to the frame. Fenris was right behind them. Anders and Merrill followed, with Varric and Isabela guarding their backs. The mages had felt “something bad, very bad”, but could not quantify the statement, and Fenris had been suitably terse with them over their usefulness at that point.

At the entrance into the bedroom, the fighters stopped abruptly in the doorway, stunned. There was a woman riding Sebastian into the bed. “Um…Sebastian?” Hawke stuttered as they stood uncertainly.

Blocked by the fighters, Anders shifted to peer over shoulders, and in Merrill’s case under arms, trying to assess the situation. “Magic! She’s a blood mage, Hawke! Get her off of Sebastian!” Anders shouted in frustration.

If she had taken them by surprise, it was nothing to the astonishment on the woman’s face. That changed quickly to rage. It took the three fighters to haul the naked screaming woman away from Sebastian. Even so, they did not subdue her. Reaching an arm toward the bowl of blood that the cat had not finished consuming, the blood mage called on the power in the blood now spilled across the floor by the intruders’ booted (and naked) feet. A host of shades rose up against them, as well as several dead bodies from under the floorboards.

Anders made his way, dodging the combatants to where Sebastian lay naked, still thrusting upward in spite of the missing woman, still spellbound. Restraining the flailing body, even with magic, would only hurt Sebastian more, and who knew when the mage would realize that she could order Sebastian to attack them? “Hawke!” Anders shouted, hoping to be heard. “Kill the blood mage! Now!”

The room was not big enough for the swords, knives, bolts and spells spinning about the room, let alone all the variety of enemies to be fought. Merrill blocked the bed, guarding them, with Anders trying to tend to the thrashing Sebastian.

Aveline thrust her sword through the woman’s chest as Fenris took her head off with his massive Mercy Blade. The bodies that had not been disassembled by the party crumpled, and with the shades having been the first things destroyed, that left the blood mage’s body to topple, spurting blood from her neck and pouring out of her chest from where Aveline had recovered her long sword.

Sebastian gave a massive convulsion, and exploded in a climax, semen spurting onto Merrill’s face as she turned to him and on Anders’s arms where he now held the Chantry brother. Sebastian lay, gasping, for a moment before yanking himself away. Straight up above him in the rafters was a set of golden eyes. Sebastian screamed as he curled up into a ball with his back toward the healer.

The cat leaped down to the bed, and headed for the door. “Hawke! Stop that cat!” Anders was doing a lot of shouting today.

“Anders, is this the time for your cat obsession?” Hawke sounded harassed as he searched the bodies lying on the floor.

Merrill cast a spell to close off the door, vines twining up the frame. “It’s a demon, Hawke. It’s inside the cat! Stop it before it escapes into Lowtown!”

Purpose frustrated, the cat’s body warped and demons rose throughout the room, giving the party fresh targets to attack. Fire raged, Sebastian could feel the heat from within his fetal curl, could feel Anders placing a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. And then relative silence, punctuated by the heavy breathing of reassuringly normal party members. He could hear Anders clearing the room. “Only Merrill, and Fenris or Isabela, everyone else out.”

Fenris’s deep voice saying, “I will stay” brought simultaneous relief and panic.

Sebastian could hear Hawke complaining, protesting as Aveline shoved him, Isabela and Varric out the door and followed them.

“Sebastian.” Anders’s voice was gentle, as was the hand tightened on his shoulder. “Sebastian, I need to check you over. I must find out where you need to be healed. Merrill can put you to sleep if you prefer?”

“NO!” Sebastian shouted hoarsely. “NO BLOOD MAGIC!” It was muffled by his position, but intelligible.

“She won’t be using blood magic,” Anders promised. “This is a Keeper spell, Sebastian. No blood involved.”

“No! Please… I would stay awake.” It was not a whimper, but it was very breathy. “Please? I am sorry, I just cannot. Not Merrill.”

“Alright. Merrill, would you please get me some alcohol to clean his wounds, cloths, some sort of strong broth or soup, and fresh water? I do not trust anything I would find in this hole,” Anders’s tone was grim.

“What may I do?” It was Fenris.

“Just stay here for now. I will let you know when I need your help.” Anders and Fenris seemed to be in accord.

That was certainly different. _Maker,_ Sebastian thought, _I must look horrible._

Then he started to laugh as Anders coaxed him out of the ball into a prone position on his back. “Maker,” Anders muttered at the marks on Sebastian’s stomach before pressing his lips together tightly.

Sebastian looked at Fenris, who remained silent, his face a mask of stone as he watched Anders’s gentle hands lift and bend Sebastian’s arms. “Maker,” Fenris prayed, “please help us save our friend.”

Sebastian flinched, hissed, and groaned at the pain in his muscles, the cuts and bruises being probed. When Anders lifted his head and ran skilled fingers through Sebastian’s hair to check for skull fractures, Sebastian spoke. “He hit me on the back of the head with a cosh.”

Anders grunted in understanding. He dealt with violence daily in the clinic. “Not broken. Something to be thankful for, then.”

Something to be thankful for. Would Sebastian ever be thankful again?

“Alright, can you turn over on your stomach? Let me know if you need help.” Anders let Sebastian move himself, albeit slowly.

Sebastian supposed he could be thankful for Anders’s clinical detachment. He assumed it was easy for Anders, since they tended not to get along, at least until he had rolled over and heard the shocked intake of breath from the healer, twinned with Fenris’ grunt, quickly contained, at the sight of his back. 

“Sebastian.” Anders’s voice was careful and controlled. “When Merrill gets back with the supplies I am going to clean out the open wounds on your body. It will be easier then for me to heal them. I… There will be _no_ scars.” That had the note of angry promise in it. Anders was aware of the look that Fenris had shot toward him, though the _elvhen_ did not move. This was going to take skill. Skill, effort, and a lot of lyrium potions. The mage controlled his voice. “May I use magic to see what is wrong under the surface?”

“Do I need to stay on my front?” Sebastian felt calmer, more relaxed, with Anders’s sure hands moving over his back, concentrating on his spine, gently checking all manner of marks from his neck down to his heels.

Anders gave him a cheerful voice. “For now, until I check along your back. I want to see how your spine is, and look at your kidneys.”

Sebastian nodded. “I understand,” he said into the bedclothes, making an effort not to wince when the cool blue of Anders’s magic flooded his flesh starting at the knot on the back of his skull.

“I am not healing you right now,” Anders went on, “just looking to see what needs to be done.”

“Anders, I have the alcohol and cloths. Varric is taking care of the soup.” Merrill’s approach had been unnoticed by any but Fenris. “Creators!” Merrill had gotten a look at Sebastian’s back.

“Thank you, Merrill!” Anders said too loudly, taking the items from her stunned hands. “Why don’t you check on Varric and that soup!”

Sebastian could hear Fenris ushering Merrill firmly out of the room, her voice still audible: “I am _so_ sorry, Fenris. I won’t do it again. I…I just have never…”

There was a low murmur from Fenris cutting her off, not angry, but terse, and then, “Alright. I will take care of that,” from Merrill before the sound of the door banging shut behind her.

“The good news -” Anders began to clean the bite marks on Sebastian’s shoulders with the alcohol and cloths as he said in his too cheerful voice “- is that your kidneys and spine are fine. There are some ruptures, some pulled muscles, but nothing that I cannot fix. Fenris, what happened on your last trip up Sundermount with Hawke?”

Sebastian felt the confusing conflict of pain from Anders dressing his wounds, pleasure at hearing Fenris talk about fighting giant spiders, Anders’s humorous comments about Fenris’s telling of the tale, and Fenris’s sarcastic responses to those jokes. It was a distraction to keep him from concentrating on what Anders was doing, but it was good to listen to the two of them, his companions, even if Anders was not a friend as Fenris had become. 

When it came time to turn onto his back, the movement was easier. Anders used his magic to look for problems, and then went back to cleaning the bite marks. “As I said before: some ruptures, some pulled muscles. No broken bones. Nothing I cannot fix.”

Fenris took up his tale of Isabela being chased by a giant spider up a rock face. Sebastian closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

...

Sebastian felt warm, cared for, as he drifted out of his first solid sleep in days. Heat moved from the top of the back of his head down his neck and back, blue heat, peaceful heat. He was again lying on his stomach, and the growling of his stomach brought the man fully awake. Sebastian was still on the bed, prone, Anders leaning above him, hands glowing blue as he healed the marks and tears to his skin.

Sebastian moved his head to look out into the room. Fenris was kneeling by the bed, his gauntlets removed, and Sebastian’s hand in both of his. Sebastian was holding on to Fenris’s hands tightly, the only muscle that was tight right now, he thought drowsily.

“Our sleeper is awake, I see.” Anders’s calm tone matched the warm comfortable feeling of the healing energy on Sebastian’s back. “You fell asleep right as the spider was attempting to court our Isabela.”

“How long?” Sebastian’s voice was still hoarse from disuse.

Anders did not pause in his work. “About an hour. We took a break for some water and a rest, and then finished with those messy cuts on your backside. Not a mark, except what was there from long ago. How did you get that big mark on your thigh?”

Sebastian laughed, genuinely, if breathily. “Archery practice when I was ten. Gone horribly awry.”

The glowing blue hands were apparently over the soles of his feet now, and it tickled slightly. Sebastian moved, twitched at the feeling, and felt a stab of joy at the ability.

“Alright,” Anders said briskly, “Fenris is going to help you turn over, and then we’re going to have some soup. Merrill brought it back, not from the Hanged Man, but from some lovely woman in the alienage who heard we had a sick friend. After that we’ll give you a chance to use the chamber pot, and then we’ll start on the front.” Anders hesitated. “It will be painful when we get to your genitals, Sebastian.”

Sebastian nodded into the mattress. “Will we leave then? I do not want to stay here any longer than we have to.”

Anders did not joke, just said, “As soon as I have everything stabilized so we don’t hurt you when we move you. Varric has a chair coming. We will take you to Hawke’s house to heal.”

A shock of fear ran through Sebastian. “Surely,” he said, the panic rising in his voice, “I can walk!”

Anders and Fenris began to lift him. “You could walk to the door, and then you would fall over. You’ve not eaten in days; you’ve had little enough sleep, and healing takes its toll. You are going to need rest before you can go back to your duties at the Chantry.”

Sebastian tried to help them, but his muscles felt so tired, so weak - not immobile as they had when the blood mage had controlled them, but more as though he was recovering from a long, high fever. When he was sitting up, legs hanging off the edge of the bed, and Anders supporting him from behind, Fenris draped a cloak, soft and dark brown, across his lap. It hurt. Just moving and his groin hurt, much less putting someone on top of it.

“There we go!” Anders’s determinedly cheery voice sounded in his ear. “Now time for some chicken soup. We’re going to go slowly, though. Take your time and taste it, Sebastian.”

Frustrated as he was at his helplessness, the lifting of his arms was difficult; they felt so heavy. Sebastian was grateful that it was Fenris helping him, lifting the spoon of savory broth to parched and split lips. The first sip was painfully quick going down. Sebastian barely tasted it. Next was a mouthful of water, which he held for a brief moment before allowing it to slide down a dry, dry throat.

Anders was sipping from a bowl of the soup, no spoon, slurping in Sebastian’s ear while bracing him from behind. Another thing to be thankful for, that he was not against the rough whitewashed wall, or the wooden headboard. Anders’s feathers had been removed, and Sebastian could see them hanging over the head of the bed. Between mouthfuls, Anders told him, “Fenris had his soup when Merrill brought it, so don’t worry about him. He also had a couple of mugs of wine as well. We’ll give you some of that before we start the next bit of healing.”

Sebastian could smell the wine now, on Fenris’s breath as he knelt before him. It was a commonplace smell, and comforting in its familiarity. His caretakers did not let him fill his stomach with the glorious soup or drink enough water to truly quench his thirst. “Dangerous,” Fenris said, “to take too much right away.”

“Alright, time for the wine, Fenris.” And Fenris held up a wooden mug filled with a strong red wine. Anders’s voice was in his ear again: “Drink it all. It will help with the pain.”

The wine did not make his head any clearer, but a glow spread through his limbs, and Sebastian could feel himself starting to smile foolishly. “I am so glad that you found me, Fenris. And Anders.” It seemed necessary to make sure that the mage…the healer, not be left out, but then where to stop? “And Hawke, and Aveline, and Varric, and Isabela, and…and even Merrill.”

Lying flat on his back with Anders’s healing blue hands above him once again, the pain was not too strong as the healer closed up wounds and knit flesh together. Anders warned him when the worst bit was coming. “Hold on to Fenris’s hands. Don’t worry about hurting him. He can take it; can’t you, Fenris?”

Fenris rumbled in assent, and pulled Sebastian’s hand into his two smaller ones. The pain was grinding, and in the most sensitive part of his body. Anders’s voice letting him know what he was doing as the blue power flowed down into him, was all but lost in the sensation of being too, too present, here in the agony. Apparently healing damaged nerves gave them the chance to complain at being restarted. Sebastian did not know if he actually said that to Anders, but he thought he had, and that Anders had laughed. Fenris held him tightly. They moved through it, the three of them, and then Sebastian was warm and exhausted and it was over.

“I had Merrill destroy your old clothes.” Anders was sorting through a pile of garments. “The Chantry can send me a bill, but I think they can manage a new set of robes for you that won’t have the same…associations.”

Sebastian was too tired to protest. The clothing had belonged to the Chantry. With his vow of poverty, there was not a lot he did own truly, and his clothes were not his personal property.

Clean smallclothes, a pair of baggy brown trousers, a linen tunic, with heavy wool stockings in a ridiculous pattern covered his body. The soft, warm brown cloak with its hood would cover his hair and face. He would look nothing like Brother Sebastian of the Kirkwall Chantry as he was carried like an invalid up the steps to Hightown.

There was a mouthful more of water, and then Anders said, “Sebastian, I need to ask you some questions. They may be difficult, but I want you to answer them as best as you can.”

Sebastian pulled the cloak around himself and huddled in the softness, then nodded.

“When did you last eat?”

“I think the morning I was taken.” Sebastian found it hard to remember that morning at all.

“Did your captor -” that startled Sebastian “- make you eat anything? Drink anything?”

“Water. She gave me water.” Sebastian swallowed, then said, “I do not believe there was anything in the water. She drank from the same bucket.”

Anders shook his head slightly. Fenris looked at him. “What are you thinking, ma…Anders?”

“There is always the possibility that she keyed a spell on the water specifically to Sebastian. It would not affect anyone but him. I will check that out when we get to Hawke’s house. It is -” Anders grimaced “- a little complicated to do.”

“Possible?” Sebastian listened to Fenris’s calm deep voice. ”How probable?”

“I don’t think it’s very probable, Sebastian.” Sebastian realized that Anders was trying to reassure him, before asking a really intrusive question. Anders’s voice was detached, careful. “Did she insert anything into your anus, Sebastian?”

There was a “no” there, and for, “Did she use urine or feces at any time? Put them on your body, or make you swallow them?”

Sebastian gave a hollow laugh. “No, there was none o’ that. Nothing exotic. Just a mad desire for fornication and cunnilingus. A mad desire, apparently, for me.”

Anders sighed. “Sebastian...” There was a pause before the healer went on, “This was not about sexual desire. Nor love. Rape is about control. It is an act of aggression. It will be difficult for you to accept this, I know. But you did not cause this. There was little anyone could do to prevent this sort of…evil. Magic or no. Rape is evil.”

“You -” it was halfway between an accusation and a question “- told me that you had not been assaulted in the Circle.”

“No.” It was quiet and very carefully said. “I was not assaulted in the Kinloch Circle. The templars there did not rape me.”

Sebastian knew Fenris’s background. The harshness of it, but... “Why Isabela? Why Fenris _or_ Isabela?”

“Because the best thing that you can do to heal this is to talk to people who understand part of what you went through. They are all different, but it helps to talk. Now,” as Varric appeared in the doorway, “we’ll get you into your chair, and then you and Fenris will go to Hawke’s house in Hightown. I will see you soon enough.”

“Wait!” Sebastian grabbed Anders’s hand. “Will you not be going with us?”

Anders shook his head. “Fenris will stay with you. You will not be alone. Merrill and I will be taking a look at the bodies here. We will try to find out anything we can about the woman who did this to you. Afterward, and after we see her body taken care of, I will see you at Hawke’s.”

In spite of Sebastian’s desire to think about all that he had heard from Anders, what he had seen since his rescue, he found himself distracted by the chair ride up to Hightown, possibly the wine as well; and then, when set into a very large bed in Hawke’s guest room, sleep claimed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking for literary and research criticism, looking for comments on how to improve.


	5. First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in between...

When Anders arrived at Hawke’s mansion with Merrill in tow, he was bone-tired. Merrill, all five feet of her fearsome intimidating blood mage body, had escorted them. Anders gave a silent prayer of praise to the Maker and Andraste that they had not been attacked on the way.

Merrill skipped off to the library; Anders could hear the voices of Hawke and Varric through the doorway. Looking up at the staircase, knowing that the guest room lay at the top of it, Anders wondered how it could have grown so mountainous. Truly, it was like Sundermount. Each step took effort, but Anders was in a fog and suddenly found himself on the balcony and walking in the opened door to the guest room.

A fire was lit, and it was the only light, flickering and revealing Fenris in a chair by the bed. The _elvhen_ was leaning uncomfortably against the stuffed arm, Sebastian’s hand on the arm of the chair, and Fenris’s on top. Sebastian was sound asleep, his heavy regular breathing the only sound other than the crackling of the fire. Fenris’s eyes gleamed out at Anders in the darkness.

“That can’t be a comfortable position.” Anders’s voice was soft.

“It is not,” rumbled Fenris, who hesitated, then confessed, “Sebastian was having trouble. He…” Fenris was distressed and it showed in a slightly higher tone of voice. “He was crying in his sleep.”

“Yes.” Anders checked his patient, who seemed to be sleeping soundly now. “He will be doing that. It is not a bad thing, Fenris. You were smart to give him something to hold on to. Some physical contact. It was wise.” Anders smiled directly at Fenris, for all that he might not see the expression in the dark.

“Why me?” Fenris watched Anders settle into another ridiculously padded chair with a quiet groan. “Why ‘the wild dog’?”

“Why not?” Anders, unrepentant, quirked a grin and his teeth shone through the shadows. Before Fenris could respond in their neverending bickering, Anders gave another answer, “Because you are his friend. Because you can give him empathy. Because you will understand some of what he is going through. In a way that Hawke, or Varric, or Aveline, or Merrill cannot. And I knew that you would keep my word. Not leave him alone."

“It seemed an odd choice. Someone more nurturing…” Fenris trailed off as Sebastian moved his hand on the chair arm, and Fenris situated his own hand back into position on top of Sebastian's.

“Like Isabela?” Anders laughed quietly. “Or Hawke?”

“Well...” Fenris certainly packed a lot into his few words.

Anders took a deep breath, said, “You were the right choice. Thank you for volunteering,” and accepted Fenris’s grunt as reply.

Fenris gave a report next: “Sebastian had a bowl of beef stew to eat and water to drink at the dining room table with the rest of us before we brought him upstairs. He was unable to bathe himself, so Hawke and I helped, then got him into clean clothes for bed. He fell asleep soon after and has been sleeping since. He…cries from time to time, but has not woken up.”

“Good. Sounds very good. Fenris, I am going to close my eyes. Just for a minute. Then I will give you a break.” Anders truly meant those words, but fatigue took over, leaving Fenris alone to watch over the two sleeping men.


	6. Second Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian wakes up to his new reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-reading!

This had been a bad day. Anders had told Sebastian that things would be worse before they started to get better. The majority of the day had been spent going over and writing down what had happened to Sebastian while he was in the clutches of the blood mage.

It was not an easy task. Sebastian did not think that having Anders and Fenris with him for the entire day had made it any easier. Still, Sebastian listened to Fenris breathing in Hawke’s guest bed beside him and thanked the Maker for his friend. He had refused to allow either Anders or Fenris to sleep in chairs by his invalid bedside. It was too ridiculous that they had done it last night to begin with.

Actually, the morning had been the best part of the day. Sebastian had been awake in the darkened room listening to Fenris’s steady breathing in the chair where the _elvhen’s_ hand still lay on top of Sebastian’s. The Chantry Brother was afraid to move it.

Anders was snoring slightly in another overstuffed monstrosity of an armchair; both of the chairs looked black in the darkness. The fire was out, and it was cool, but the air in the room was close, stuffy. Sebastian had no will to move, to face the day, or to get up and motivate those around him. He just wanted to stay in the bed.

…

A fresh breeze washed through the close room when Orana opened the curtains at Fenris’s instruction. Sebastian had slept himself out, but Anders had to be woken from a sound sleep. Sebastian watched with amusement as the healer stretched and yawned and cracked his neck audibly from the armchair. The crick was almost drowned out by a dragon-sized growl from Anders’s stomach.

Anders looked down with a grimace. Sebastian was unsure whether the distaste was for the state of Anders’s appearance or of Anders’s belly. Generally the man was clean, if threadbare. No one would look at Anders and mistake him for nobility from Hightown, but he was immaculate compared to most of Darktown.

A glance at Fenris showed the _elvhen_ watching the mage…the healer with narrowed eyes.

“Orana -” Anders seemed to be unaware of the scrutiny, or perhaps he had gotten used to it over the years “- do I smell breakfast for a starving man?” His voice was pitched to be quavering, elderly.

The _elvhen_ maid gave Anders a small smile. “Messere Anders, breakfast is ready in the dining room.” Then, with a dimple, she added, “There are muffins.”

Fenris and Sebastian jumped, but Orana did not as Anders threw himself to the floor before the maid, raising pleading hands. “Orana! You are the woman for me! Marry me?”

The normally serious, often frightened young girl gave what could only be called a giggle, then replied, “But Messere Anders, you are married to your work!” before she gave a trim bob of a curtsy to Fenris and Sebastian and tripped out the door.

“Well -” Anders was back to his feet and his normal tone of voice “- how are you feeling, Sebastian?”

“Stiff. Nothing like the pain I was in yesterday. I…” Sebastian nodded. “Thank you. For healing me.”

Anders looked uncomfortable. “Sebastian, you are not healed yet. I mean, yes, I was able to heal your body, but…”

Sebastian felt a knot in the depths of his gut. Fenris finished for Anders, “What you have experienced has left marks upon your mind. Upon your soul and sense of self.”

Sebastian looked down, avoiding their eyes. “And how do I heal those?” His voice was low.

Anders looked to Fenris, who shrugged.

“You take the time to heal. You accept the help of your friends. Like Fenris. It helps to talk to those who have gone through...” A pause. “Trauma, rape. It helps. Because they -” Anders was now looking at a particularly uninteresting patch of bare wall “- have been through what you will be going through. They can help you understand that it is not your fault. But that you can take what happened to you and move on.”

“Moving on.” Sebastian had repeated the words, thinking of returning to the Chantry tomorrow. 

He was jogged out of his thoughts by the enormous rumbling noise from Anders’s unhappy stomach. “Well, we will discuss more of this after we have eaten breakfast. You need to keep your strength up!”

“You are fooling no one, Ma…Anders!” Fenris had growled. “You are motivated solely by your desire for Orana’s muffins.”

Sebastian smiled at that, but then heard Anders giggle, like a boy. “My desire for Orana’s muffins?” Anders asked incredulously, blushing.

Oh. Oh Maker, no! Sebastian found himself snickering like an unruly child. The snicker grew into a laugh, and then Anders began to laugh, and it grew into a howling belly laugh that neither could control. Fenris looked at both of them with exasperation. It seemed he had intended to joke, but Anders had taken that joke in an entirely different direction. They laughed themselves out when Anders, taking pity on Fenris, turned to him and cupped his hands at chest height, mimicking breasts. “Fenris, Orana’s _muffins_ have never been safer, I swear to the Maker.”

Fenris looked shocked, then annoyed. “This is childish.”

Sebastian looked at Anders wiping tears from his eyes. It was impossible to regret the laughter. “Yes, Fenris,” Anders said with a grin, “but sometimes it is good to be childish.”

The muffins had indeed been excellent, and Fenris had controlled his own burst of laughter when Orana had offered him a plateful. But Sebastian had seen it, that twitch of a smile that meant a good deal to someone watching for it.

It was well that, as Anders said, laughter was a healer all its own. Because the things that Sebastian had to look forward to for the future were tears, panic, cold sweats, nightmares, inappropriate anger, aggression, sexual issues. Well, the sexual issues he had expected, to some extent. Though what those issues would have to do with someone sworn to celibacy, Sebastian was hard put to imagine.

Fenris gave a soft snore beside him. Sebastian had not shared a bed in many years, but Fenris had offered to stay with him to make certain he was not alone, as Anders had promised. Being alone would not be a problem in the Chantry. Privacy was something rare there. Sebastian was uncertain if the lack of privacy would be the same as having the comfort of Fenris’s presence.

Of course not. Tomorrow Sebastian would go back to the Chantry. Sebastian gave a sigh and turned over. Tears and troubled breathing aside, telling his tale had helped. Sebastian thought uneasily that now, in spite of Anders’s suggestion, the rest of the healing was up to himself.


	7. Anders in the Chantry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elthina seeks the aid of an apostate healer from Darktown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to beta-reader Lunamoth116!

As Anders went to light the lamps outside of the clinic, an urchin was waiting for him. Not an urchin that Anders knew, but there were so many dirty and uncared for children in Darktown and Lowtown. The child held out a scrap of paper folded in half. As Anders received it in his long slender fingers, the boy, if it was a boy, ran off.

Hmm, a note. Sadly it was not going to be one of _those_ notes, the kind one got from an admirer asking for a romantic tryst in a closet of Kinloch Hold. The kind of note that one received from an ardent lover highlighting the ways that one was remembered. At least it did not appear to be a threatening message. Few of Kirkwall’s residents would use such heavy paper for that, high rag content, beautifully made paper. Anders had not seen such lovely paper since he had left the Circle.  
Not overly odorous; the missive had not been perfumed, merely handled by one who spent her days inside of the Chantry. Incense. Elthina.

Interesting messenger. Anders understood that. Sebastian had been Elthina’s errand boy. Certainly he was still functioning as such according to the informal network of informants that Anders saw from week to week. Lirene, the Fereldan advocate, knowing Anders knew Sebastian through Hawke, had spoken of Sebastian’s haggard looks: “Anders, he is not Fereldan, but surely you will help the man. Truly, he looks terrible. And he was so handsome!”

As though Sebastian could ever be anything but handsome. Elfroot-stained, his fingers handled the heavy cream-colored scrap of paper. No outside marks. He opened the folded sheet to see strong but feminine handwriting: _Anders. Confession is good for the soul. Today. Noon._

A long pause for thought, and then Anders blew out the clinic lamps.

Anders was praying in the Chantry a quarter of an hour early. Instead of his usual robes, the mage was dressed in baggy brown trousers and a furnace worker’s canvas smock and apron. Anders’s distinctive hair was loose, not drawn back, and he wore a bandana knotted around his throat. His prayers were for the freedom of mages, the healing of Sebastian, and that he would be able to remain free after the noon meeting. Though he kept reminding himself that had Meredith wished to collect him, she would hardly have set up such a complex trap. Of course, it had not been Meredith who had used Karl to bait Anders in the last time. There were other Templars in Kirkwall.

The cramped booth of the confessional was claustrophobic. A sliding sound behind the screen heralded the confessor. Or would that be the confesser? “You are very punctual, Messere Anders.” Out came Grand Cleric Elthina’s calmness.  
“I am assuming this is about Sebastian, Your Grace, and as he is…was…my patient, I have an interest,” Anders responded.

There was humor in her reply. “Unless there was something else you wished to discuss with me?”

Anders gave an audible sigh and rested his head on the wooden wall of the cubicle. Sometimes it was an effort to exclude Justice from the conversation, and any discussion on mages’ rights needed to be handled with some measure of tact. Or at least without wanting to attack the person one was having a conversation with. Justice did not like Elthina. Justice felt she was an impediment. And tact? It was something which Anders had in short supply. “Yes. Many things, actually. I wish...” It was not a heavy pause, but still a noticeable one. “Many things, but Sebastian will need to come first.”

Elthina, obviously pleased, said, “Thank you,” then also paused as if gathering scattered thoughts.  
“I am concerned. Sebastian is not sleeping. He is not eating. He has told me outside of confession about what occurred, and therefore I may speak to you of it. Other than myself he has spoken to no one else since he returned to the Chantry aside from empty courtesies.”

“This is not good. I had suggested that he -” how to put this? “- speak to others who have had similar traumatic events. I know of several people that I encouraged him to use as sounding boards.”

“Well -” Elthina’s voice was tight “- he will barely speak to me, let alone anyone outside of the Chantry. He will not leave, except for delivering messages, and then he returns with a speed that makes me question whether or not he has actually accomplished his mission. He always has. But his time for speaking freely to all and sundry has been curtailed. By himself. Part of his duties to the Chantry involved speaking to the congregation, being a link. That link is broken. Sebastian is not going to heal while hiding in the Chantry. Not this time. We could help him heal much of the issues with his family. We could give him a healing place to shelter when their murder was discovered. It troubles me that -” she searched for the words “- we are not what Sebastian needs right now.”

Anders was surprised. “What do you need from me? I have healed his body, Your Grace, and the rest will be long and hard work that he needs to choose to do.”

Elthina cleared her throat. “I would like to send him down to do charity work in Darktown. There is a clinic there that might need some assistance. A place, he has said before, of Sanctuary and Healing.”

“You want to send him to me?” Anders continued to be surprised. “What do you expect that I will be able to do with him?”

Anders could almost feel the sadness in her voice. “I expect that you and his companions among Hawke’s orbit will give him the support he is shutting himself off from in the Chantry. “

Anders thought for a while, and Elthina gave him the time to think. “If Sebastian comes to me,” the apostate said, “to work in the clinic, and to spend time with Hawke’s company, then there will need to be…” Again, how to word it? 

“Certain dispensations from his vows,” was the best that Anders could come up with.

Anders got the impression that Elthina was tilting her head. “Why? What about his vows would cause a problem?”

 _Yes, Anders_ , he thought, _exactly what are you saying here?_ “I do not exactly know, but there may be some forms of therapy that would not be consistent with his vows. He is not allowed to drink. No eating of rich foods. He is extremely abstemious in all pursuits. He is not allowed to engage in sexual activity of any kind, so I understand. Sebastian is dealing with what he perceives as emotional and sexuality issues as well as the trauma of the rape. Sexual dysfunction may be an issue.”  
 _There, Elthina,_ he thought, _deal with that mess of worms._ He expected her to just say “no” and that would be that. At least it would give him some idea of what restrictions she was placing on him in this.

"And how would you be treating this sexual dysfunction?" Was Anders imagining disapproval in Elthina's voice? Accusation? "Would this mean that you would be planning to have sex with Sebastian?"

Anders could hear the sharpness as he said, "Sebastian is my patient. I have no intention of taking advantage of him in this state, if ever. If you have heard that I -" His voice had raised, and the mage paused and took firm control, attempting to start again. "I had no idea that I had that type of reputation." His tone was very dry now. "Perhaps Sebastian would be in better hands in the Gallows or Orlais?"

"But I doubt that very much," he muttered under his breath angrily.

"I doubt it as well," said Elthina, giving Anders something to think about regarding the acoustics of the booth.  
There was a moment, yet another pause, then he heard, "Anders." His name sounded entirely too comfortable in the Grand Cleric's mouth. "It is difficult for me to make decisions without information. You have patient privacy to consider, I have the sanctity of the confessional. Those make it difficult for us to coordinate on how to help Sebastian. It is even more difficult if we do not have a common understanding of the issues at hand."

"Sebastian has to make choices for his care, Elthina." Anders felt he was being remarkably patient considering his anger a moment before. "I cannot decide any of it for him. He is an adult, and this is not a life-threatening situation where I may take control.”

“Why do you feel sexual dysfunction would be a concern for a Chantry worker who has taken vows of celibacy? We accept all, as they are.” Aaaand she was not going to let this one go easily, nor do what was expected, was she?

Anders tried reason. “It affects the holistic health of the body. We are not speaking of someone who has an incurable illness or loss of a limb. Reactions and pressures are sure to build up, and Sebastian needs to retrieve the tools he is able to gather so that he may deal with them. And it makes for a useless vow, wouldn’t you agree, for a man or woman to give up something they do not have? Would it not be better for Sebastian to be able to make a choice for the Maker?”

A sound of startlement, then silence. “I believe you have made your point, Messere Anders. Expect him. I grant the dispensations to his vows while he is with you. This will relieve him of having to follow orders as well, you do understand that?”

“Yes, Your Grace. You do know -” Anders of course could not shut his mouth “- that Sebastian and I do not get along. And even if we did, I cannot guarantee anything.”

“Yes, Messere Anders. I know. But I have faith.”


	8. Elthina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elthina speaks with Sebastian.

Elthina looked out the leaded glass at the memory garden below her study. She had been the inhabitant of this room for many years now, and it felt comfortable. It was home.

The Grand Cleric of Kirkwall had spent a good deal of time lately studying the problem, deciding how to handle it, and now was the time to put the plans into effect. Preparation did not make any of this easier.

The thought nagged at her, was she being selfish to send Brother Sebastian away from the Kirkwall Chantry? And to Darktown and Anders? Was this the easier path, not the better one for Sebastian? No, Maker grant Elthina’s mind was clear, and in spite of misgivings this was the way she had chosen.

Guard Captain Aveline and the Kirkwall Guard had identified the body of Sebastian’s kidnapper. Name, a buzz and a blur, Ostea, no last name, unknown to anyone except in old Gallows records. Age, older than Sebastian, though not as old as Elthina. Product of the Kirkwall Circle originally, who had disappeared a decade and a half ago. The Templars had used her phylactery, which they still had in storage, but had been unable to track her down. The fleeing mage must have taken ship, traveled outside of the reach of the Chantry in that time and returned only in the last few years. Aveline arranged with Cullen for the phylactery to be burned with the body as was apparently Circle Custom.

The woman had a reputation for standoffish behavior, “thought she was better than us, she did”, and no visible means of livelihood. There were some in Lowtown who had similar secrets, usually thugs who could defend themselves. Ostea had not been attacked for any supposed wealth because the locals were frightened of her ‘evil eye’.

A cache of coins (mixed copper and silver from Antiva, Rivain, and Tevinter) filled a trunk hidden under the floor. The metallic smell was touched with that metallic aftertaste of blood. Aveline had ordered the coins thoroughly scrubbed before turning them in to the Viscount’s office. Contamination, the Guard Captain had explained shortly.

Hawke had skillfully bullied Bran into awarding the confiscated coinage to Sebastian for “pain and suffering”, at which Sebastian had started to laugh in hysteria,itself painful and difficult to stop. Elthina gave Sebastian a fortnight, the box sitting in her office under an altar cloth. This was at Sebastian’s request.

And now her problem was sitting in front of her, tense in the wooden chair that ought to have been a comfort, the chair in which he had discussed so many of the Chantry’s issues with her before.

“Sebastian,” Elthina had been grave in her interaction with him since his return, careful and comforting, “The time has come to make a decision about your Dragon’s horde.”

Sebastian had expected a talking to, possibly about his work. The Song of Andraste, the Chant, was hollow in his ears, even as he sang it. At Elthina’s words, though, Sebastian’s head snapped up to look the Grand Cleric in the eyes, something he now avoided with everyone. The humor that sparked in those wise and Sebastian had always thought young, eyes pulled at the hard knot lodged in Sebastian’s chest. A gasp escaped as the man strove for control of the tears welling up, as they did all too often now. Elthina waited calmly, her lips curved in the first smile Sebastian had seen since his return. Searching, he found that smile, a fond one, reflected in the Grand Cleric’s eyes.

“Dragon’s horde,” he repeated slowly, his voice rusty, though he’d sung the Chant daily since returning.

The smile broadened, encouraging, and waited.

“All that I have is the Chantry’s,” that was safe and said in a flat tone.

“I would like,” it was said hesitantly, as they were all still being so careful with him, “to have your suggestion on where to bestow the windfall. The Dragon’s horde is entirely too uncomfortable as a footrest, Sebastian,” there was the humor again, “and I would like to cleanse the money by using it to good purpose.”

Yes. This was about healing. Healing him. “Gie it to Anders,” where had that come from, and with such a reversion to his home dialect.

“You want me to give Chantry funds to the known apostate in Darktown,” but there was laughter in the words, not disapproval.

“He… it… the money would go to families that have nothing. And to funding the Healer's free clinic. He, Anders,” and Sebastian mangled the Chant, “has done His work this day. And on many other days.”

Sebastian had not felt this defensive in years. Not even when he had renounced his vows to seek revenge on those who killed his family. Elthina reached out, moving slowly to avoid frightening the wounded animal, Sebastian thought. He had not failed to notice that the people closest to him had this in common. An aged hand, soft from a life of administration and prayer, rested on his shoulder, gave him a squeeze, “I believe,” that word was stressed, and “That he does the Makers work with the inhabitants of Darktown. And that Anders did the Maker’s work in his healing of you.”

A careful phrasing. “Magic is made to serve man,” Sebastian intoned, striving to keep sarcasm out, to maintain sincerity.

Elthina stood up, turned her face to the window, hands clasped behind her back, “Sebastian, I would like for you to see the healer again. Speak to him about your thoughts. Your worries.”

He knew. “You have been meaning to bring this up.”

“I do not have the healer you need here at the Chantry, Sebastian. The Gallows… is not an option,” her tone reminded Sebastian of the tales he had heard, from Bethany, from Anders, from those who came to him for confession and comfort. No, the Gallows was not a place of Healing.

But Hawke had told Sebastian of “a place of sanctuary and healing.” “Anders and I,” Sebastian was unsure whether he was speaking to himself or to Elthina, “do not have a friendly relationship.”

Elthina’s eyebrows were lifted, one of her mannerisms, he could tell from her voice, “And yet you once told me that Anders was one of the best Healers you had ever seen. If 'smug, condescending and a trifle rude' as you have said.”

“He has already healed me,” Sebastian could not prevent the coldness; it came from the twisted knot of shadow inside him. All the darkness of his past had been set aside in his work at the Chantry. That box containing it in his soul had been smashed by the blood mage’s intrusion, the darkness was again seeping out.

Elthina thought of the crushed being returned to her, the friend in obvious pain, a support that she might never receive from him again. Selfish! She thought, it was time to think of what would heal Sebastian, her friend. And more than that, one of her flock, her responsibility. “Tell me what you are thinking, Sebastian,” and when he moved to his knees she stopped him, “Not as a confession. As a friend.”

“Was my faith so hollow, Elthina,” Sebastian started slowly, “That I could not withstand this test?”

“Do you speak of what you believe? Or what you think you need to say to be pulled back to what you once were? You will never be that person again, Sebastian. But you can be so much more!” Elthina did not think that her words were making it past his defenses.

“If you send me to Anders you will be putting me into the hands of a Mage. He is the same as the person who did this to me. You will be putting me in close contact with Hawke who supports the mages, and lives with,” no, Merrill was not his to betray,“ another apostate mage. One of those who made me this way.”

“As you just said, ‘Magic is made to serve man’,” Elthina said softly, “And you have not turned them in to the Templars before now. We have discussed this in the Confessional. Are you using this as a reason to avoid facing them again? Hawke’s Company?”

Sebastian shuddered, “Perhaps it is right to put me back into their hands. A perfect punishment for my sins.”

Sebastian knew there were folk in the Chantry who gossiped. Elthina preached against it, “murder with words” the Grand Cleric called gossip. Sebastian’s looks stood against him, he knew. And his association with Hawke was well known. Sebastian had heard whispers. Supposedly he was sick with despair over something that had happened while working for Hawke. Some form of evil had attacked him, or he had killed an innocent, or … Sebastian could not believe the direction those rumors had gone. It struck him as odd that it was more important to bloody Hawke’s nose in this than to remember Sebastian’s wild youth.

Sebastian’s body was there, but again his presence was not. It was as when he was not present in the singing of the Chant, for all that his voice was beautiful and completely correct. “Talk to me, Sebastian,” Elthina had not meant it to sound pleading.

And he did not pretend to misunderstand, “I have lost my peace,” the grief was heavy in his voice, “I try to understand why the Maker punished me. What evil did he see in me?”

“You feel the Maker punished you,” it was breathed out, but not surprised.

“Elthina,” that was pained.

"Punishment, Sebastian? You whom I have heard speak in the Sanctuary on the subject of the Maker’s forgiveness? It says in the Chant that the Maker’s only punishment to us was to turn his face. He does not visit plagues and demons upon us,” Elthina had turned back to face him.

Sebastian cringed. He was a sinful man, and had lost everything. No, he had thrown it all away in his pride, and now Elthina could see the evil and the cowardice.

“Sebastian, I have heard you preach that the Maker does not visit misfortune as a punishment. If He does not destroy the wicked for their sins, then even more so, why would He torture you?”

“My sins are black. They must be.“ Tears choked Sebastian, “Or why would He allow it?

Don’t you see it, Elthina? What better punishment to visit upon me after my blasphemy and whoring than to put me into the hands of that blood mage?”

Slowly, disbelief kept firmly in check Elthina asked, “It was the Maker’s fault that you were hurt in this way?”

“No!” it was shouted, “It was my fault! I deserved to be hurt!” Sebastian clutched at the wooden arms of his chair.

Elthina looked at Sebastian with such sorrow that the man started an apology. Elthina cut it off, “Sebastian, do you have free will from the Maker?”

An unexpected question and it stopped him. “Free will,” it was a stutter, “Elthina, of course we have free will.”

“And the blood mage, Ostea? Did she have free will?”

Sebastian was silent.

“Will you deny Ostea the free will the Maker gave her, so that you may feel more in control? You would take responsibility for the actions of Ostea? For her use of blood magic? Are you blaming the Maker for both her evil choices and your rape and torture?” It was blunt. More forthright than any one at the Chantry had yet been, “Or will you understand that she chose to do as she did? It was her choice, Sebastian! The Maker was not punishing you!” it was the only time that Sebastian had ever heard Elthina raise her voice.

“Elthina,” Sebastian was taken aback.

“We serve,” and at Sebastian’s flinch, “Service, Sebastian. It is not an evil word. The Maker is served in many ways, each are different.”

“The Blood Mage called what my body did service. How was that serving the Maker?” bitter, so bitter.

“I am a Servant of the *Maker*, Sebastian. As are you. What one evil woman did to you does not change that. There are many ways to be in ministry. But right now you are not in a state to minister... to anyone. At least not here. The Maker calls to all of His children. Mages and Templars and everyone else. Right now He is calling you to Darktown. And we may not see what the design is in all of this. We may never know, but how we deal with adversity makes us stronger.”

Sebastian closed his eyes in pain, “and you will send me away from my home?”

Elthina did not relent, “Sebastian, you are assigned to work in the Darktown Clinic until such time as the Maker brings you home to the Chantry, and not your Pride.”

Sebastian bowed his head. Pride. Pride was a deadly enough sin to be at the top of the demonic hierarchy. There was nothing to be said but, “Yes, your grace.”

Elthina stepped to him and placed her hands upon his head in blessing. “My dear friend. Sebastian. May the Maker work through Anders and Fenris and Hawke to bring you back to us. You are my dear friend, and I grieve for your pain. But your healing lies elsewhere. I grant you dispensation from your vows while you are in service to Anders in Darktown. Anders will explain what that means, and why he requested it. The Maker, and Andraste His bride will be with you Sebastian.”


	9. Welcome to the Clinic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian leaves the Chantry for the Darktown Free Clinic.

The small, rough sack was light. Sebastian had not packed the armor, his grandfather’s bow, nor his heavy Chantry robes. A vow of poverty made for light packing.

Hawke was leaning against the Chantry board, trimming fingernails with a small knife, obviously waiting. “Heading for Darktown?” Hawke always had such a charming smile.

At Sebastian’s nod, Hawke fell into step with him. “I thought to help you with your baggage, but I see that you are traveling lighter than usual.”

“What can I provide but my hands and good intentions?” Sebastian had little experience with helping the sick beyond directed tasks. “My armor and weapons will do no good where I am going.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” Hawke said darkly, then waved a hand with the small knife spinning around knuckles and back into his hand. “Actually, not a problem. Varric has been paying the Carta and the Coterie off. Keeps the clinic moderately safe.”

Sebastian gave that a thought. “The clinic, but not the inhabitants of Darktown. They still need all that we can give.”

Hawke snorted. “What they need is to get the Void out of Darktown.”

Down steps, and down more, and down even more. There was a quicker way, through the Amell estate cellar, but they tended not to use it. Use would attract attention, and make it less of an escape opportunity if needed. The air grew close; Darktown was part of the old sewer system, and the inhabitants heated the echoing tunnels with fires fed with all manner of trash. It stank.

Up again, the steps to a landing outside of Anders’ clinic. The lamps were not lit. Sebastian could hear voices inside. Hawke stopped him. “What?”

The voices were in argument, Anders’s recognizable tones, and an oddly distorted version of his voice. Anders was arguing with Justice. Or with himself. 

Hawke slowly opened the clinic doors. Anders was pacing through the clinic, waving his hands. “This is a patient, and we will do all we can to heal him. Not for Hawke’s sake, not for my sake, for his own sake. You have no authority over my patients!”

“He is a pawn of the Chantry, Elthina’s tool. Do you not recognize that she sends him here to spy? To interfere?” The distorted voice echoed oddly in the chamber.

“I have spoken with Elthina,” Anders replied, “and this is my decision. In this she is doing the right thing. And there can be compromise. We can work out our differences.”

“There can be no compromise, Anders,” the voice boomed.

Sebastian stepped into the clinic, waving Hawke to enter at his side. “Blessed are the Righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

Hawke closed the doors behind them. “Elthina,” Sebastian said quietly, “is a light in the shadow.”

“Elthina,” rumbled the eerie double baritone of Anders’s passenger, Anders’s eyes flaring blue, “is the impediment to the freedom of mages in Kirkwall. Without Elthina, Orsino and Meredith would do battle, and the victory would be clear.”

“Victory? What victory can there be in a battle between the templars and the mages? Death would be the result. Many would be murdered for no reason but that they were not on one side or the other. Elthina prevents this needless death.” 

Sebastian could not help the jab. “Elthina is preventing injustice to the powerless.”

Swirling electric and ice blue eyes glared at Sebastian. “Elthina would serve justice if she broke with Meredith and supported the right of mages to be free!”

“Magic was made to serve man, not Justice. Not your needs, Justice. Elthina is keeping Meredith’s madness at bay!” Sebastian heard his voice raised, and realized the truth of what he was saying. Meredith was mad. Templars such as Ser Alrik were corrupt. Giving them free reign would destroy the good that those like Knight-Captain Cullen strove for.

Electricity in the air raised strands of auburn from Sebastian’s head. Justice thundered, “You stand with those of the Chantry, a spoiled and rotting injustice. You shall reap the reward for your devotion to their foul enslavement of the mages!”

“Justice!” The word rang out above the crackling sound of Justice’s power. “Cease this! Sebastian is not your enemy.”

It was Hawke. Involving himself as usual. Sebastian could not help but be thankful. Justice boomed back, “He will be destroyed for his unwise choice.”

“Is that Justice? Is that even Vengeance? Against a man who disagrees with you, but has fought at my side, at Anders’s side, to help mages?”

“This is not the way to win support for the cause, Justice,” came Aveline’s clear voice from behind them. The doors were open again and with Aveline stood Fenris and Varric.

“Support? What need we of support in the Chantry when they are the corrupt authority imprisoning the mages? Where is the support of Elthina? You, Aveline, are not one to speak of support, when you fear the mages. Your support is conditional.” That echoing voice from Anders’s lips never failed to be frightening.

Hawke was patient. “There are some things that are wrong, Justice.” Sebastian could not understand why Hawke was always so patient. “Interfering with Anders’s patient is one of those things. Anders does not refuse to treat anyone based on their beliefs. Andrastians and Dalish. Elven, human or dwarf. Male and female, old and young. Would you deny this man treatment because you are angry at his sincere beliefs? When he has helped you in the fight against blood magic?”

A shudder rippled through Anders and the air around him. “Enough!” Not an echoing, booming voice, but a tired one.

The blue faded, although there was a lingering hum of energy. “I will do this, Justice.” The brown was back in Anders’s eyes, lifted to look into Sebastian’s. “Sebastian, you are welcome here.”

For a huge echoing hall filled with members of Hawke’s company, the air suddenly felt so empty. Anders staggered, regained himself, then advanced with a hand outstretched. “Sebastian.” The smile might have been stronger, but it was there in his eyes as well. “Welcome to the Darktown free clinic.”

…  
Sebastian stowed his belongings - mostly personal care items, a brush for this and a brush for that, and a single change of clothing - at the back of the clinic. There were three shelves in the small space behind the curtain: one filled with books for pleasure reading, one with Anders’ gear, and a cleared and clean shelf for his own items. It was simple enough to place his brushes, soap, a small knife, a wooden cup and bowl set, and a copy of _The Chant of Andraste_ in an orderly fashion. Little room left, actually, so it was probably a good thing he had not brought more in the way of books borrowed from the Chantry.

There were two cots separated by barely enough room to walk sideways; Anders’s was identified by a small embroidered pillow at the head. The cheap, harsh sheets were clean, and a blanket lay folded at the foot of each bed. Sebastian could hear his companions speaking on the other side of the curtain.

“Blondie -” it was Varric’s smooth voice “- if you need a place to crash. Or to take some time alone. Or for any reason. You are welcome at my palatial suite in the Hanged Man.”

Anders was amused. “Varric, do you think the company will be too much for me?”

Varric must have been smirking. “You can bet that Choir Boy will get a similar offer from Fenris, if he hasn’t already. You’ve been alone too often and too long. It’s bound to be a change having someone with you all the time. Okay?”

Sebastian cleared his throat before sliding the curtain open. “How do you fit on that cot, Anders? You’re bound to be taller than it is long.”

That got a genuine look from the healer, and a laugh. “I make do. Mostly I sleep at my desk.”

And with that enigmatic statement Varric led them off to the Hanged Man.

…

Anders would later tell Sebastian, “I expect that you will regularly attend the games at the Hanged Man. Even if I cannot go, you should. You will be exhausted from the work in the clinic, and it’s important that you get out and relax.”

“Can you not relax in the clinic?” Sebastian had asked.

In response, Anders had made a grand show of looking around at the place. No, it was not a space conducive to doing much of anything. It was not even a good space for a clinic, but as Anders said, “It has to do. It’s what I have.”

As they walked in a safe large pack through Darktown, Hawke dragged upon Sebastian’s arm, slowing them down to the back of the group. “Sebastian, you are a friend.” Hawke who never hesitated - he was more like a bronto in a potions shop - did so now. “And Anders is my friend as well. I am not certain that this idea is a good one. Wouldn’t it be better if you stayed with me -” _and Merrill_ was unspoken “- in the mansion?”

Sebastian’s gut was telling him to consign them all to the Void: Justice, Anders, Hawke and Merrill, Varric, even Elthina. That was pride speaking, he knew. “Hawke, this will not be easy. Not for myself. Not for Anders. Not for Justice. It is something I would like to try. It is good though...” Why was Sebastian reassuring the man?

“It is good that I have someone I can go to for help if I need it. Thank you, Hawke.” Reassurance was second nature to Sebastian now, after long years in the Chantry.

After two weeks without that skill, perhaps it was coming back?

…

Watching the apostate mage from across the table, Sebastian ignored his own hand at Diamondback. Sebastian had learned the game in a brothel, as had Anders. It was not that Anders was bad at the game; he knew it well, had a good memory, good sense of cards. Anders was not a stupid man. It was his tells. Anders had so many tells that it was a cruelty to be playing against the man. In contrast, Fenris, sitting to Sebastian’s left, had practically none. 

Isabela bought the first round of drinks, as she had lost a bet - on the Carta of all things - to Hawke earlier in the week. “Drink up, boys,” the pirate said cheerfully. “This is the last round on me tonight!”

The mug in front of Sebastian was enormous, as was the mug in front of Anders. Anders raised the drink and said as if giving a toast, “Enjoy yourself. This is medicinal. I’ve made arrangements. Feel free to do as you will tonight.”

That was startling. There were no knowing glances around the table, which meant that Anders had let everyone in on what he was doing. Sebastian knew that Justice did not like when Anders drank. It was tempting to drink excessively, as he had done in his days as a wastrel, just to see the reaction from the spirit. Tempting, but not enough temptation to entice Sebastian to ruin his first night here as Anders’s assistant.

Even being here, at the broad table in Varric’s rooms, dressed in homespun and linen instead of his armor, felt odd, out of place. The talk tonight over cards was of intoxication. Anders spoke of trying to drink a dwarven Grey Warden under the table. Isabela spoke of the ugliest tattoo she had ever seen which had been acquired by her first mate after a monumental drinking bout. Fenris spoke of his first mouthful of Aggregio, and of the mark the bottle had made on the wall of his borrowed housing. 

Even Merrill had a tale, though she lost track of her cards in the telling of it. Which was odd; with her Keeper training, Sebastian would have expected Merrill to be good at remembering small pieces of information. Sebastian was not tempted to speak, but he did enjoy listening, the camaraderie, and the two pints he drank slowly and carefully. It was not an attempt to be in control, but rather to relax and lose himself a little in the group.

Sebastian was surprised to find that he did trust these people, much as he might not approve of them all. They knew what he had been through and were trying to help. Of course, he started speculating on what tricks they might have played on him before Ostea… and for a moment he was back in her arms, listening to her voice, smelling the copper bitterness of blood, tasting it. Only a moment, but it was real and unnerving. Coming back to himself, Sebastian realized that Fenris had placed his hand on Sebastian’s arm, but had gone on with whatever he had been saying to Varric. No one else appeared to notice.

Thanking the Maker and Andraste His Bride for these people and this chance to heal, Sebastian went on with the game.


	10. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian cannot sleep, and Anders tries to find out why.

The cot creaked with any movement. The blanket smelled of elfroot. It was clean, but scratchy. The sheets were likewise clean, but rough. Sebastian could not sleep.

That had not mattered last night when combined with exhaustion and Corff’s brew. Sebastian’s eyes had closed while he listened to Anders putter around in the clinic then.

This morning, waking was disorienting. The darkness was complete but for a slight glow from behind the curtain. The smell of the clinic reached into the little alcove. The strong solution Anders used for cleaning the tables and implements trampled over the smells of herbs hanging in bundles to dry wherever the healer could string a line, an undertone of cooked cabbage, and the oddly comforting scent of cinnamon. For the first time in forever, Sebastian felt a hint of appetite.

Sebastian had sat up and stretched, the cot creaking loudly, surprised to find himself dressed in an overly large nightshirt.

Anders’s head peered through the curtain. “Good! You’re awake! Chamber pot is under the cot, washing is out here behind the blue curtain. And Hawke sent Bodahn down with some of Orana’s rolls for breakfast!”

When Sebastian emerged from behind the blue curtain, he was dressed in his humble brown clothing to find Bodahn sitting at the table with Anders. Orana’s rolls smelt wonderful, and there was a pot of hot, strong tea to go with them. Sebastian received a thick mug of fragrant tea, shaking his head at Anders’s offer of honey to sweeten it. “Bodahn,” he greeted Hawke’s servant.

The discussion between the dwarf and the healer revealed much. They knew people in common, discussed the politics of Ferelden, and King Alistair, whom they had both met. Orana had sent an invitation to dinner, and Bodahn included Sebastian as well.

“Orana does not believe that I have enough to eat down here in Darktown. I have been eating up with Bodahn, Sandahl and Orana in the kitchen of the Hawke estate once a week for over a year now.” Anders mooned in exaggerated reminiscence. “Orana is a very good cook.”

Soon enough Anders moved to light the lamps at the door, and Bodahn left with the basket and plates. It was silent, though there was movement outside in Darktown. 

“Sebastian.” Anders was professional again. “I kept an eye on you last night while you were dreaming. When there was a disturbance in your sleep, I checked the Fade. So far as I could tell, there were no demons hovering. Which I find a very good sign. Normally they are all over someone who is distressed. Why do you think you are having difficulty sleeping?”

Sebastian snorted. “Dreams, of course. I can’t remember what happens in them. But I come awake with the feeling that something is waiting for me to fall asleep. It is waiting for me.”

Anders nodded. “You remembered what happened when the Blood Mage sent you to sleep and spoke to you in the Fade.”

“I did.” Sebastian was thoughtful. “But it was an effort to remember it. I knew I would forget. She gloated about it, so I tried very hard to keep my memory of the dream when I awoke.”

“It is possible for non-mages to remember their walks in the Fade, but not everyone does. Lucid dreaming, it is called. Mages do it normally, but I was told that was because the Fade is a habitat for us.” Anders smiled. “So you have someone waiting for you. Who do you think it is?”

Sebastian shuddered. “What if it is Ostea? If it is not a demon, perhaps it is the blood mage.”

Anders hummed, and then a knock came on the wooden clinic door. “We will discuss this later. I plan on going into the Fade with you tonight. We’ll find out what you’re dreaming of, and if there is someone waiting for you. Once we see that, it will be easier to know how to deal with any possible threats. Also, I want you to eat everything I give you today. Elthina says you have not been eating. 

“For now! You are on wash detail! Do you know how to do laundry? That pile of linens needs to be cleaned. The pails and soap are in the corner there. Hang everything to dry on the landing when it’s as clean as you can get it. Careful, that’s lye soap, and can wash the skin from your hands.”

Sebastian spent his first day in the clinic washing used clothing (for dispersal to the residents of Darktown), linens, and the curtains used to separate out areas of the clinic. That was in between chopping herbs, straining liquids, writing down Anders’s dictation as he worked on the patients, and holding babies while their mothers were examined. He had help. In fact, it surprised Sebastian that Anders was rarely alone in the clinic when the lamp was lit.

How did everyone know? Was there some errand lad who raced about Darktown and Lowtown announcing Anders’s availability? And what happened on days when Anders was out helping Hawke? Something to ask the healer later.

In the meantime, he found it easier than he expected to be courteous and as helpful as possible. The women thought his manners were odd, but attractive. Some of the men thought he was making fun of them. A few of the residents of Darktown spoke to him in language suited to scholars or nobility. The Blight had made strange bedfellows all about Kirkwall.

Anders accepted no payment for his services. Gifts were proffered. Anders seemed to know so many, and there were times when he gently refused them. “Maker knows that woman has taken in every Fereldan orphan she can. I can’t accept food from Evelina when she can barely feed her own adopted children.”

Sebastian had made no comment on any of the traffic in or out of the clinic. Anders looked at him, made certain that the man was attending before going on, “She’s an apostate, you know. Left the Fereldan Circle because of the Blight. Things got a bit messy there with Uldred’s blood mage uprising and all. Went to the Gallows to turn herself in -” that was emphasized “- and asked for help with her children. Coin, a place for them to stay, food, anything. Meredith refused, and had any of them turned away when they tried to see Evelina. Left them without aid of any sort, in a city with no heart. When Evelina escaped the Gallows it was to come back here to Darktown to take care of her children.”

Sebastian was aghast. “What about the Chantry resources?”

“Funny thing.” Anders was no longer looking directly at Sebastian. “Meredith didn’t bother using her connections to help those children. All she cared about was putting Evelina under lock and key after her ‘escape’ from Kinloch Hold. Cullen or Thrask might have tried to help them if they’d known, but Meredith handled Evelina personally. The Chantry has too many Fereldan refugees already to help them all. Walter and Cricket and the others got turned away from the Chantry. And of course there is no Viscount anymore. Not that Dumar gave a damn about the Fereldans anyway. Lirene has been the best bet for most of the Fereldans.”

“Lirene?” Sebastian asked.

Anders laughed. “I had forgotten; you weren’t with Hawke when he came to find me. He found Lirene first, and she pointed him here. She takes care of the refugees out of a small shop in Lowtown. Hawke funds a good deal of Lirene’s good works now that he has the Amell estate.”

Sebastian was happy that he had eaten heartily that morning, because Anders did not waste his coin on food, that was certain. Still and all, it was more than he had kept down for a week or more. Lunch was an enormous quantity of a very gritty bread, more sawdust than anything else, along with a large piece of elderly cheese. The evening meal was a soup that was thin and brothy, with little meat and a variety of unidentifiable vegetables. Anders told him to be happy about the lack of meat, as if it were abundant then it would surely be some type of rodent. Sebastian did not want to eat - his stomach still cramped him - but choked it down regardless.

The lamps were not put out until late, as Anders ushered the last of his helpers out the double doors, thanking them for their assistance during the day. Evading the hanging laundry, they settled at the back of the clinic while Anders pulled cheap paper to him and began to mark notes with a rusting iron nib and extremely black ink. Since Sebastian had used this equipment earlier, he knew how difficult it was to make a clean line. Anders was writing furiously as he explained, “I’m not certain how this will work, Sebastian. Alcohol disrupts the sleep patterns for the next night’s sleep. Very bad for your long-term health, and that does not even take into account what it does to destroy your body. Which is why you can not escape into a bottle. I am thankful that Hawke managed to get Fenris to stop drinking quite so much. In any case, you should be sleeping lightly enough to wake up if something goes wrong.”  
Sebastian raised auburn eyebrows. “Is something likely to go wrong? What would that be?”

Anders snorted. “Sebastian, please? Can you think of a single place we have not been attacked in Kirkwall?”  
.  
Sebastian gave it some thought. “Other than the Gallows?”

“Exactly,” Anders grimaced, “and I do not expect the Gallows to be out of the running for long.”

“So,” Sebastian drew the syllable out, considering, “just a precaution.”

“Exactly!” Anders smiled tiredly, and Sebastian was reminded that the healer had not slept the night before.

Anders added, “I am hoping that being asleep lightly tonight will make it easier to wake up with your dream remembered.”

Thinking of the day’s events had not helped. Sebastian found himself listening to the man in the cot beside him. Anders’s gentle snore was soothing rather than otherwise, and eventually Sebastian opened his eyes to find an odiously familiar room in Lowtown.


	11. Return to the Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions...
> 
> Religious discussions...
> 
> If you find the thought off putting, then please scan and skip them, but it was bound to come up, and will come up in the future as well. This is Anders, Sebastian, Fenris, and Elthina, after all..

The Fade version had not changed, from what he could recall. The exception was Anders sitting against a wall - leaning against it, really. His eyes were closed, and the healer was seemingly asleep.

“Anders?” It came out overly loud.

The healer opened his eyes, yawned and got slowly to his feet. “Tired. Even here.”

“Were you asleep?” Sebastian asked in disbelief.

“Well, yes, and still am.” Anders gave him an odd look.

Sebastian shook his head. “No. Just now? Asleep inside my dream?”

Anders looked around dramatically. “Sebastian, I...I know this is not a pleasant place for you. It is not a happy memory for me either. So. No. Closed my eyes so as not to look at it.”

Sebastian’s stomach did a backflip, and the muscles began crawling up his spine.

“You okay?” Anders put a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder.

Sebastian could feel the solidity of Anders’s hand. The touch was oddly comforting. It was also disconcerting to be speaking here, in his dream, and feeling the weight of Anders’s hand. Of course, Ostea had touched him in the dream, hadn’t she? Sebastian could not really remember.

There was something odd about all of this. The room looked like that room in Lowtown, but there were no street sounds coming from outside, no gulls screaming in the skies overhead, and it did not smell like Lowtown in general, and Ostea’s home in particular. The scent of blood was absent. It, this place, smelled like something half-forgotten.

Sebastian grabbed Anders’s shoulders and pulled him close enough to breathe in his scent. Soap and herbs, sweat, human, and a smell like the afterthought of a rainstorm.

Anders was frozen in place, giving Sebastian a wild-eyed look. “She,” Sebastian found himself explaining, “smelled like blood. Ostea.”

Slowly, Anders said, “And I do not?”

A laugh surprised its way out of Sebastian. “You were up to your elbows in blood today, and vomit. And still…no. You do not smell of either of those.”

Anders huffed a sigh. “Good! I suppose?”

Looking around again, the healer said, “Can’t say I much like this place. But at least you’re clothed! That’s a good sign, wouldn’t you say?”

It had not occurred to Sebastian. He was not naked and bound by chains of blood, not in his Chantry robes, nor in the armor his father had commissioned. The blue tunic and brown trousers he had worn today felt normal, appropriate, although he knew his body was actually wearing a nightshirt on the cramped cot in Anders’s clinic.

“What were you expecting?” he asked Anders curiously.

“Hadn’t actually thought about it until you got here,” Anders said with surprise. “Either your armor, I guess, since that’s what I am most used to seeing you wearing, or in the worst case naked and in chains.

“Do you feel called upon or bound in any way?” It was Anders’s careful “healer” voice.

“No, nothing.” Sebastian paced about the room, touching one rough wall, the one that Anders had leaned against, putting his hand through another, the hand sinking into solid stone but feeling only air.

The bathtub still hung in the air, and Sebastian walked through the only doorway with trepidation to find it. The edge island in the Fade reached only to a jagged edge of flooring, what would be visible from the other room. The tub hung over emptiness. It was confusing. It made no sense.

“Are we trapped here?” The Chantry brother turned to the Healer.

“I don’t think so,” Anders said thoughtfully. “At the very least we will wake up eventually, back in the clinic.”

Sebastian looked him over thoroughly. Anders was dressed in a simple tunic and trousers tucked into boots. “What?” Anders asked. “What is wrong?”

Sebastian scuffed uncomfortably at the “ground” with his own boots. “I had expected to see Justice, or that you would be glowing blue. Fenris told me about your trip into the Fade with Hawk to deal with Feynriel.”

The curve of Anders’s mouth turned down. “Well, I wasn’t along for that particular party. After you departed -“ he left the unspoken “after Hawke asked you for your aid and you refused” out, but Sebastian could hear it “- the Dalish Keeper sent our bodies into the Fade. Justice is in my body, not my spirit. Or rather, he is a spirit, and we are both the spirits that inhabit my body when I’m home. The Keeper sent our bodies into the Fade. So Justice came out for that little picnic and I was in the background. But here? Now? No, Justice cannot return to the Fade, much as he once desired it. It was his home. And the Fade is the only place I now have where I am without Justice.”

Sebastian was unnerved by the entire experience. This place. The Fade. That this was Anders, for the first time without Justice. What type of person had he been, or was he? Right now, Sebastian decided, Anders looked tired. Worn out while helping Sebastian, among others. “I did what I thought right, Anders. ‘For no mortal may walk bodily in the realm of dreams’.” He received a nod from Anders before going on. “May I ask you some questions about...” He hesitated. “...While Justice is not here. I do not wish to provoke him.”

Anders’s laugh was engaging. “Neither do I, but I continually do! I used to provoke him all the time before we joined! But he’s not here. Maker, ask any question except for Isabela’s favorite one. I am so tired of that one.”

Sebastian tried to think what that question might be before asking the first thing on his mind. “Why does Justice hate Elthina so strongly?”

From the way that Anders stared at him, Sebastian thought it might not be the question Anders expected. “I suppose,” Anders replied slowly, “striving to be fair and all, that I am angry about the Chantry’s role in the imprisonment of mages. In the destruction of mages as people. Justice was not like this before we joined. He was naive about humans, being a spirit and all. One of the Maker’s first children. He asked a lot of questions. I was naive about what would be needed to make life better for mages.

“When he...I hate to use the word ‘joined’ again, but nothing else really comes close. It’s not like you could take apart my body and find him, so saying that he entered my body does not explain it. My anger changed him. My anger. Not Justice’s. 

“What Elthina does to stop Orsino from contesting Meredith’s abuses? How Elthina condones the behavior of templars like Alrik and Meredith? My anger. Over those. Over ordinary mages that would be safely Harrowed -” and Anders looked off and spoke as if to himself “- and I cannot believe I am using the word ‘Harrowed’ and ‘safely’ at the same time -” before going on “- in any other Circle in Thedas being made Tranquil to serve the sexual whims of men like Alrik. 

“Sebastian, taking someone’s freedom to choose away from them, and then instructing them to serve as a sexual slave is rape. I have no word other than it is an abomination that they do this. And Elthina allows it.”

“You hold Elthina personally responsible for the evil that Alrik does? Or any corrupt templar?” Sebastian had so much to say in response that he had to rein himself in.

Bluntly, Anders said, “Yes.”

“Would Justice hold you responsible for the evil that blood mages... that Ostea did?” Sebastian was treading carefully through this minefield.

“I was not that woman’s leader. I was not in direct supervision of that woman, Sebastian.” It was evident that Anders was curbing his own anger.

“But,” Sebastian said slowly, “you speak for the free mages of Kirkwall. Hear me out, Anders, please. I know Elthina. I love her dearly, but still, hear me out, and listen to what I am hopefully going to say clearly.

“Elthina cares for her flock. Her flock included Ostea, whether the blood mage wished it or not. Her flock includes Orsino and Bethany and all of the Kirkwall Circle mages, do you agree?” Anders was looking at him intensely and gave him a nod of agreement. “Her flock includes Meredith and the templars Thrask and Cullen, as well as Alrik and that man who abuses Alain.”

Again Anders nodded, and again Sebastian went on slowly, “Those people are her flock, and she cares for them, and Andraste knows she prays for them, because I’ve prayed with her. But she cannot force them to behave in any particular manner. They have free will.

“If a Templar came to either of us for confession, and spoke of abuse like that which we know is happening in the Gallows, the response is to require that they admit to their wrongdoing, make reparations before receiving absolution. Alrik does not attend services nor the confessional.

“Elthina does not have the authority over Meredith that you seem to think she does. She can counsel, she can use her wisdom and savvy to rein Meredith in to some extent, she can talk to her, but she is not Meredith’s superior in the Chantry line of command.

“To remove a Knight-Commander, one must have incontrovertible proof that the Knight-Commander acted against the law, intentionally or not. The law, Anders, the laws of Kirkwall, the laws of the Chantry. You have heard the words of Alrik and others like him, seen what the end result of their actions is, but we have no legal proof. Our words, yours and mine, are simply not enough. We do not doubt the words of the apostates we have spoken with. But what we know is hearsay in a court of law. Those things have not happened to us personally.

“Because men like Alrik know what they are doing and they commit their crimes well, hiding the evidence in the Tranquil or the dead.” There was an unhappy twist to Anders’s mouth, but Sebastian went on, “Do you remember Mother Petrice?”

“I remember her. The Qunari did us a favor.” Anders’s anger growled in his voice, which sounded odd without Justice’s harmonics.

“Perhaps not. Do you remember what Elthina did when presented with proof of what Petrice had done?” Sebastian was praying in a small corner of his mind that the Maker was guiding him.

Anders gritted his teeth. “Elthina turned her over to Aveline. To the law.”

“Members of the Chantry are not above the law, Anders. Not a single one of them. Not the Templar Order, not the Revered Mothers, not Elthina or any other Grand Cleric, not the Divine. Mother Petrice’s trial would have caused a scandal, and Elthina turned her over to Aveline without a second thought. That trial would have brought change. A trial like that could never be hushed. It was something that would have been discussed everywhere. The Qunari destroyed that chance to be heard for their own pride and vengeance, not for justice.”

“Elthina _was_ a direct supervisor of Petrice. That makes her culpable,” Anders ground out.

“Aye, she was. And after turning Petrice over to the authorities, Elthina cleaned house. Searched out her cronies, and where she had proof of their involvement against church doctrine sent them all to Orlais to stand for a hearing before the Divine. Proof. The Kirkwall clergy received direct instructions from Elthina that there was to be no repeat of this involvement, nor those actions. She made her displeasure known on all levels of the Chantry organization in Kirkwall.

“She works within her means, Anders. She strives to lead by example, and in doing so Elthina seeks to do right by all her flock. Not just those she favors. Not just those without magic, and the templars. Everyone.” Sebastian would have preferred to debate anything else with this healer, but he had seen the woman working for her people. Heard her words to him both when his parents died and he sought revenge, and after his assault by the blood mage. “Do you believe that I am responsible for what Ostea did?”

“Maker, Sebastian, of course not!” Anders’s compassion warred with his anger. “She was evil. She needed to be destroyed before she did more. And worse.”

Sebastian looked down at the ground. “I told Elthina that it was my fault. That I made Ostea behave the way she did.”

“It happens sometimes after a rape. And what did Elthina say?” Anders’s anger was ready to come out on Sebastian’s behalf now.

Looking into the honey-brown eyes, Sebastian told him, “Elthina told me that I could not make myself responsible for Ostea’s choices. We have free will. We have our own choices to make in response to the events in our lives. We can choose to grow, or choose to...well, I believe that Ostea rotted instead. Nobody forced her to evil. Just as nobody forced Alrik to his evil. I am not certain if I am making myself as clear as I would like.”

“I understand your point. I don’t like it, but I understand it.” It was said begrudgingly. “Elthina is a convenient point for my anger, but has no real way to wave a hand and make the world right. No more than I can with waving my staff around. There will still be evil. There will still be corrupt templars, and poor leadership in the Chantry. And a considerable number of fireballs flying around.

“Elthina and I might not agree on the place of mages in society. She will never stand up and speak for mage rights, because she looks toward the rights of all her flock, as you put it. And she believes that mages are a danger to that flock. But she does not hate them, or she would be encouraging Meredith’s abuses instead of talking her down from ‘rash’ action. Or pursuing Alrik’s tranquil solution instead of speaking against it. Though Meredith also spoke against it, and she’s nug shit crazy, Sebastian!”

Sebastian began to laugh. “Agreed!”

“Meredith is the problem here. Her ‘leadership’ among other things. She is no heroic knight, no matter what she believes about herself. Removing Elthina, though, would tip the balance, and others might just see how insane the Knight-Commander is.”

“And how many innocents,” Sebastian countered, “would be injured or destroyed in the course of events? Mages and townsfolk? Templars who have shown themselves to be sympathetic to your cause?”

“I dislike your being right, Choir Boy. But I cannot guarantee I will convince Justice of it.” It was not said with anger, and Sebastian hoped that Anders’s use of Varric’s nickname for him was a positive sign.

“You know -” Anders was calmer now “- when I first thought about being joined with Justice, I had the notion that I would be a shining knight in armor.” Anders flickered but seemed unaware as his clothing became Sebastian’s white armor. “Rescuing attractive mages from evil templars, proving to the world that the Maker gave magic to us as a gift, as it says in the Chant of Light...not as a curse.”

Sebastian was torn between wild laughter and total offense at Anders in the white armor, Andraste’s face peering out from the belt buckle. It was not that Sebastian was unaware of the ludicrous inappropriateness of Andraste’s face at his waist when armored. He had long since decided to put a bold face upon it. A gift from his father, after all, and now one of the few things remaining from his family, Sebastian had been surprised it still fit when he had decided to try to find his family’s killers. There had not been much use for armor as a Chantry brother.

Looking at the healer, it was evident that Anders had no idea what he was now wearing. Anders was saying, “But don’t we all want to be the shining hero?”

Anders mimed thrusting forward with a sword and noticed the armor. “Oh.” The mage blushed.

“You did not do that on purpose then?” Sebastian asked dryly.

Anders faced it out. “Um. No. But I think it looks well on me. Except for...” A look of concentration and Andraste changed to a stylized fireball. 

Anders posed, “What do you think?”

“It doesna’ suit ye.” Sebastian grinned suddenly, having been overwhelmed by the whimsey. 

“Would you like to see what Justice looked like in the Fade? I think I can manage that.” And Anders disappeared under glowing blue plate mail, huge and imposing.

“Hold on, I’m going to try something,” came Anders’s voice from within glowing blue. 

Anders’s form became a tall, thin cadaverous man in the trappings of a Grey Warden. The voice was still that of Anders. “This is Justice when he was in Kristoff’s corpse.”

“That is…disturbing, Anders.” Sebastian truly did find it so, to see intelligent eyes fixed on him from a face in obvious decay, though the dead eyes, he noted, were not glowing blue, nor Anders’s honey brown.

“Oh. Right!” Anders flickered back to his normal form with a surprisingly cheerful grin. “I thought about dressing as Meredith, but that would probably have made me vomit.”

Sebastian gave a heavy sigh and looked about the Fade copy of his former prison. Anders’s smile faltered. “Sebastian, I haven’t seen anything here that is threatening.” He hesitated. “I mean, other than that this room is a terrible place to begin with.”

As much as his stomach clenched to be here, Sebastian tried to look around objectively. “It does seem to be empty. Do you think your presence is keeping things away?”

“I can’t think why.” Anders slipped back to his spot at the wall and slid down to sit. “If anything, more creatures of the Fade should be investigating.”

Sebastian walked over to sit next to the healer, tailor-fashion, something he’d never have done in armor or robes. 

Anders, knees up, arms around them, back against the one solid wall, and head back to stare into the fade above, said thoughtfully, “Elthina means a lot to you.”

“Aye. She put up with me in my wild rebellion. Years before I found my calling. I respect her deeply.” Sebastian found it difficult to put his feelings for the Grand Cleric into words.

“Do you love her?” Anders asked.

“How do you mean?” Sebastian was not certain how to answer.

“Well.” Anders was still staring up at the Fade. “She is your mentor. She obviously cares a great deal about you. Enough to meet with a charming, or should I say, ‘dashing’ apostate to discuss your health. I was surprised to receive the summons, I can tell you!”

“Where did you meet with her?” Sebastian was curious.

Anders transferred his gaze to the man next to him. “In the confessional booth. It has been years since I was in one of those. The last time was to seduce a templar, actually.“ Anders smiled at Sebastian’s operatic sigh. “Well, you know how it is.”

“Happens I do, actually.” Sebastian found himself smirking.

“No! A templar in the confessional?” Anders was shocked and delighted.

“Before I was sent to the Chantry, aye. I doubt there is much you have done that I have not, Anders.” Sebastian was trying to keep the smirk from his voice.

“Except use magic,” Anders laughed.

“I meant sexually,” Sebastian protested.

“Except use magic.” Anders gave a sidelong grin.

“Oh!” Sebastian had not thought of it, for all of Isabela’s comments.

He was about to ask what Isabela’s question had been, now that he remembered, when Anders held up a hand for silence, head tilted, listening. “Do you hear something?” Anders asked.


	12. Seeing Ghosts

Scratching...something high-pitched. Searching, there was nothing. Just the same room, filled only by the neatly made bed and bounded by walls and the doorway. The bed. What about the bed? “Anders -” Sebastian grabbed the man’s arm “- it’s under the bed.”

Anders did Sebastian the grace to believe him, and moved in a fluid motion to his feet, prepared for attack. “Do you have an idea what it is?” He was all business.

“Something came from under the bed the last time I was here. I remember that it...” Sebastian paused for thought. “Squeaked?”

“Are you afraid of mice? Rats?” Anders asked. “I’m not sure what else would be under a bed and squeaking.”

“Rocking chair?” Sebastian could not help himself.

“You’re afraid of rocking chairs?” Anders laughed.

“Evil rocking chairs with ghosts...” Sebastian paused uncertainly, swallowed hard, then said, “Ghosts of old grandames with their evil knitting.”

Anders snickered, but, like Sebastian, was watching the crevice under the bed carefully.

There was white, something white slipping out, spilling onto the floor next to the bed from the darkness under the bed. “Ghost!” Sebastian shouted. “The squeaking ghost!”

Anders did not take his eyes off the whiteness. “Ostea?”

“No.” Sebastian shook his head. “One of her murders. It came out last time, and Ostea threatened it. Said that it was likely to be eaten by a demon.”

Anders moved forward, stretched out a hand, the one behind his back holding fire, as Sebastian could see, and spoke loudly. “What is it that you want of Sebastian?” Then out of the side of his mouth, he added, “I am assuming this is what has been calling you?”

Sebastian had no idea. “Who were you? Why will you not leave me be?”

Well, that started a spate of squeaking, as well as wavering whiteness that might be considered arms. Anders dropped both hands, and his fireball dissipated. “Sebastian, pull your bow.”

Without thought Sebastian pulled his bow from its familiar place on his shoulder, loaded an arrow, and waited. “I am going to touch it. If it kills me,” Anders said. “Shoot it.”

“I am not liking the thought of you touching that thing.” Sebastian had no thought as to why he was suddenly carrying his grandfather’s bow and a quiver of arrows. “What happens if you die in a dream? Do you die in your sleep?”

“Andraste’s flaming knickers, I hope not!” Anders put his hand to what might have been a white flailing arm. “Though I think Marethari told us that we would become Tranquil. Do not attempt to kill me here, I beg you.”

“Anders!” Sebastian’s cry made Anders’s hand jerk away without contact.

“What?” Anders’s tone was sharp as he jumped.

“Tell me,” Sebastian said, “what it feels like. What you’re hearing. What you’re _thinking_ , Anders. I need to know what’s going on so I don’t shoot you accidentally. Killing you is not something I wish to do, ya ken? Er, understand?”

“Maker! Sebastian!” It was almost shouted. “Easy, man!”

Taking a deep breath, Anders reached forward. “Cold.” His fingers sank through the whiteness. “It’s cold. Who are you?” 

Sebastian started, then realized whom Anders was addressing. The squeaking deepened when Anders touched it. “Slow down.” Anders was looking at the rounded top of the whatever it was, as though it were a person. “I can’t understand you.”

Pulling away, he spoke to Sebastian. “It’s a ghost. Yes, you were right. Someone who should have passed on. Probably one of those bodies we found when we rescued you. I am going to try a little healing energy. We’ll see if that makes things clearer, because otherwise I cannot understand him.”

“Him?” questioned Sebastian.

“Just a feeling,” said Anders. “Not a certainty, but I do not think it is Ostea.”

“Luko,” Sebastian found himself saying. “His name is Luko. She killed him. Took his blood to bind me.”

Anders examined Sebastian. “Did you just remember that? Or is something speaking to you?”

Sebastian started as if waking from a dream. “Just remembered it. Sorry. I count it a blessing, Anders, that I am not curled on the floor weeping at this point.”

The healer nodded, then reached forward, touching the whiteness, and blue light began at his fingertips, dispersing into the faded being. The part that Anders touched became a hand, white and looking more like an illustration than a person, holding on to Anders’s obviously real flesh-and-blood hand. 

Sebastian found himself looking more closely at Anders’s hand. The nails were short and carefully tended. Very clean, but not polished like a nobleman’s would have been. Closer to a Chantry scholar’s, though the hands looked stronger, more worn.

Sebastian found himself wondering if his arrow would do anything but go through the white thing. It was increasingly resembling a man: a short man, bulky with muscles, with a thug-like face. 

“Are you Luko?” Anders asked.

The ghost fell to its knees without a sound, still clinging to Anders’s hand. There was squeaking, but not so high-pitched as before. “Can you hear what he is saying, Sebastian?” Anders directed this question to him.

“No, it just sounds like squeaking to me.” Sebastian was loathe to come closer to the thing. A ghost was un-Makerly, a being that had refused to go on to the Maker’s side, or to the Void. 

Thinking about it, nobody would want to go to the Void, Sebastian supposed, listening to the squeaking. Of course, then they should follow the Maker if they wanted to avoid that fate.

“I think,” Anders said slowly, “that you’re going to have to touch him to understand him. Will you be able to do that?”

Sebastian recoiled, almost dropping his bow, certainly dropping the arrow from its nock. “Touch it?” There was horror in every facet of his body.

Anders bowed his head. “He is trying to speak to you. This is what is calling you each night. He says he needs to speak to you, or he cannot leave this place.”

Sebastian’s stomach heaved. What could this spirit possibly want from him? The thought of touching it made him feel unclean. Anders stood still, his head bowed, blue energy still flowing into the ghost, and made no demand of him. It was his choice.

Sebastian could shoot the dead thing. He could demand that Anders stop the healing power that was making it more substantial. He could run away.

The thought occurred to him that this was a man of Kirkwall. One of Elthina’s flock, as he had told Anders. Was this another duty that Sebastian needed to perform? What would Andraste want him to do? What would the Maker wish?

Sebastian placed his bow and arrow carefully on the ground. Hopefully he would be able to reach it if needed. Blast, he wanted to close his eyes, but that was cowardly. Sebastian put forward a hand, and touched where Anders’s and Luko’s hands met. A shock of cold and the buzzing of healing energy combined at the touch. Looking up into Luko’s white ghostly face, Sebastian asked, “What would you have of me?”

It was eerie how that paleness had eyes, white also, as all of the spirit was, that looked into his. “Mercy.” The voice was thin and unfamiliar. “Mercy and forgiveness.”

Well, easy enough in theory. Except that Sebastian felt a surge of anger, of hatred for this man. “You hit me. Dragged me to that woman to torture. You ask me to forgive you for days of pain, and suffering that has destroyed my calling.”

“Please, only you can release me. Tied here. To you. Did wrong. So many wrongs. I did not want to die!” The voice was whining and grated on Sebastian.

“The demons seem to have left you uneaten,” Sebastian sneered, trying to ignore the surprised look from Anders.

“Hiding. But they come and search. You were Chantry. You _are_ Chantry. Please? Do not let them have me. I did wrong, but I never promised the demons my soul. Nor yours. Thought she would just use the blood!” It - he - was starting to sound desperate now.

Anders interjected, “You are alone here. Yet there were other bodies. Their souls were destroyed when their blood was used. Did you bring them to her as well?”

Luko groveled before them, disturbing in that his paleness wavered like water. “Mercy! I did not know. I just thought...the blood...that’s all she wanted.”

Sebastian snorted. “Their lives. Their blood. Had you no care for what came after until she took your life as well?”

Luko whimpered, “No. Just wanted to live. Wanted her to protect me. Thought she would...I was _faithful_ to her. Why would she do this?”

Closing his eyes, Sebastian reached for the peace he had always found in meditation before hearing confessions. It was long in coming, but inch by inch he let go of the anger, the fear, the whirling of feeling that had plagued him these past weeks. The shade was still speaking, and Anders answered it, but Sebastian was no longer listening. He was seeking guidance for his actions in the Song. 

“Luko of Kirkwall.” He opened his eyes to see the ghost of that man. “As a called and avowed brother of the Chantry, servant of Andraste, Bride of the Maker, I will hear your confession.”

It was long, the litany of sins. This man had not been to services since childhood. His life was a mess of abuse, abandonment, aggression, and pain. The petty grievances, the angry justifications, they were examined and mercilessly brought to light by Sebastian, requiring genuine repentance, not excuses for wrongs done to others, and that Luko had done to himself.

Finally, he said, “I have heard your confession, Luko. Only the Maker can absolve you, but you must have faith in his compassion and love. In accordance with my understanding of his love, therefore I must give you my forgiveness as well. Search out the Maker, Luko, and walk at his side.”

Like the flickering of a flame, one moment Luko was there, and the next he was gone. Anders crumpled to the floor beside Sebastian.

“Gah,” Anders said eloquently as Sebastian picked him up, holding the man much as he had been held when Anders was healing him.

“How much of your energy did you give to him?” Sebastian demanded. “There was no need to kill yourself over this!”

Anders gave him the same grin he gave all of his patients, but it was weary. “You just seemed to need a little more time. That was all. So I kept it up until you were done.”

“I don’t want your death, or Tranquility, on my conscience, Anders!” Sebastian was angry.

There was a raised eyebrow in that look, then Anders asked, “Well, how do you feel now? Bound? Bothered?”

“No.” Sebastian was ashamed of how sulky he sounded. “I believe you were right. That was what kept me from sleeping.”

“Oh, good. Now we can go home.” Anders was relieved.

“Not just yet,” purred a low and sultry voice from the doorway.


	13. Demon in the Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fade is just full of adventure, isn't it?

Lavender and unclothed, horned head, and a tail that twitched with a mind of its own. “Great,” Anders gritted out, trying to sit up. Sebastian reached for his grandfather’s bow, difficult to do encumbered by the mage. 

“Your friend looks unwell. Unable to put up much of a fight. Why not listen to what I can offer you before you try anything more -” the demon’s purr turned suggestive “- _aggressive._ ”

“No deals with demons,” Anders spat out. “They’re never the bargain they seem!”

“And you would know.” A throaty giggle. “Wouldn’t you?”

The desire demon showed no shame in her (its?) body. Heavy breasts, shapely hips, and Sebastian wondered if he would ever find such a woman’s figure attractive again. Isabela’s was attractive, but part of that was the spark of life and humor in the woman. “You would prefer _this?_ ” And it flowed, much as the ghost had under Anders’s healing magic, into a muscular male form, black beard and unruly hair. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” came Anders’s sarcastic reply. “We’re all a little bit in love with Hawke. Give us a new ploy, would you please?”

Hawke’s lips pouted unnaturally. “Desire need not be for something sexual, mage. Power is a potent need; enough strength to protect yourself, perhaps? To prevent any harm, any invasion of your person ever happening again?”

Sebastian’s muscles were tight, waiting for attack, preparing to fight. Stomach churning, he drew on the Chant: “Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder.”

“Nice words, Prince of Starkhaven. Did they help you much with the blood mage?” the demon purred. “I can help you weather that storm. The Maker created the first children as well. Think of it as strength from the Maker of us all.”

“The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil, and grew jealous of the life they could not feel, could not touch. In blackest envy were the demons born.” Sebastian did not know which of them started the verse first, but he and Anders spoke it together.

“Attractive men, both of you. Who could be so much more, could do so much more for your world if you had the power to support your causes. I could give you that power.” It was said in Hawke’s voice, overlaid with a slightly jarring harmonic.

The creature was tempting them both, Sebastian realized. Were his and Anders’s desires so similar? It was a powerful suggestion, and Sebastian felt filthy inside at the thought of a desire for power. It was what the desire demon in Lady Harriman’s cellar had offered, though possibly the human desire for safety was not as selfish as that demon’s temptations. In the end, Sebastian’s trained and educated mind pointed out, there could never be absolute safety. Not even in the Chantry. What had Elthina and Anders both said, each in their own way? It was how one dealt with the traumas and events that defined one.

The purring awful version of Hawke’s voice was going on, “You chose the wrong partner, healer. Strong, yes. If you let him, he could destroy everything you hate. The Chantry. Elthina. The Gallows, Meredith. The Circle whose marks you bear, all those Templars. But you cannot let him loose, can you?” 

“Shut it!” Anders’s voice cracked. “You know nothing of Justice. He is my friend!”

That brought a gale of laughter. “Justice? No longer. Vengeance now. And what does he tell you? There can be no peace.” It reverberated in the manner of Justice’s speech. “I can help you escape. I can help your friend return through the Veil to the Fade. You would both be safe; you would both be alive.”

Anders stood. The demon’s attention turned back to Sebastian now. “How do you feel about that, Chantry?” The voice echoed Ostea’s. “Will you have the strength necessary to protect your beloved Elthina when Vengeance comes for her? Let me help you fight him.”

Sebastian raised the bow, forgotten in his hand till now. Nocking the arrow and sighting down along it, the Starkhaven prince replied with every ounce of icy contempt he could muster, “I think not.”

He fired. On the heels of his arrow striking the demon in the eye, a blast of thunder and flash of lightning raced from Anders’s hands to blast the creature into a scorched spot on the floor of the Fade.

Momentary silence. Then Anders gave a loud puffing exhalation in relief. Sebastian asked, “Does this happen to you often?”

Anders shook his fingers. They looked red and burnt. “Often enough. The Harrowing is basically putting a demon inside a mage and seeing if it takes over. And anyone who has traveled with Hawke tends to get to say ‘no’ to demons fairly often.”

“Even Merrill?” Sebastian was not sure why he was bringing the blood mage up.

Anders sighed. “Even Merrill. But the day will come when she does not say ‘no’. That is when...well, I do not want to think about that.”

Sebastian noticed then that it was getting darker. “Anders?” He turned to the healer.

“Because it will ruin Hawke. But it would harm Hawke even more if he is the one who has to destroy Merrill as an abomination.” Anders had not noticed.

“Anders?” It was darker now, and there were sounds that Sebastian did not recognize.

Anders looked at him, then glanced up and around. “Shit. You need to get out of here.”

“What? Why?” Sebastian was not liking those noises just in back of him, but there was nothing there when he looked.

“Because the darkspawn are coming. You don’t want to get trapped in the dreams of a Grey Warden, Sebastian! Try to wake up!” Anders shouted, looking frightened.

“Sebastian! Try to wake up!” The shout echoed through the clinic, despite the curtain closing off the sleeping area. Sebastian sat straight up, breathing hard, his heart pounding.

Anders was deep asleep beside him, body thrashing on his cot. There was speech coming from the healer, but not in any language that Sebastian recognized. The movement became almost convulsive, and Sebastian swung his feet over onto the floor. Shaking the mage, he shouted, “Anders, wake up. Please wake up, Anders!”

Anders’s eyes were moving under closed lids; he was struggling. Sebastian reached back into childhood and remembered what his nanny had done. Pinching Anders’s earlobe hard, he called, “Anders! Wake up!”

With a scream of defiance the blond man shot to a sitting position, his head colliding with Sebastian’s. “Maker! Ow!” Sebastian was unsure whether he was commenting on the earlobe or the pain in his skull.

Sebastian rubbed above his eyebrow; there would be a bruise there tomorrow. Anders panted loudly for a time, then looked at him. “Sebastian! Thank you!” It was no doubt heartfelt.

“Do you dream of darkspawn often?” Sebastian was curious.

“Often enough. Not sure what set that off. Usually we dream of them when they are talking.” Anders flushed. “And I am not supposed to talk about that. I’ll be fine now. Go back to sleep, Sebastian. We can talk about things in the morning.”


	14. Sebastian in the Clinic

“Healer.” The voice was gruff, low and confidential. “I see as how the Chantry has got yer boxed in. Spying on yer like. Yer want me to take care of ‘im for yer?”

Anders looked over to where Sebastian was chopping elfroot and entertaining a little girl with stories while she waited for her mother to give birth. That was going to be a while, as Anders had Lirene in the screened-off birthing area timing the contractions, and it did not look like the little sister would be here any time soon. Leaning forward, he spoke quietly: “Stigs! You recognize my new assistant? I never figured you for an Andrastian!”

“O, sure! Me and mother go to Chantry twice a week! That’s Brother Sebastian. He preaches and sometimes takes confession.”

Stigs’s remaining teeth did not detract from his Darktown charm, though his breath left something to be desired. Stigs’s mother was seemingly frail, but tough enough to take on the Carta with her knotted cane. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Stigs.” Anders smiled down at the little man. “Sebastian is here on an exchange program.”

That confused the man. Everything, actually, confused the man. 

“I don’t want him to be harmed, Stigs. He’s sent here by the Chantry to help me. To help you, in fact, and everyone in Darktown.”

Stigs blinked bloodshot eyes. “He knows about -” weathered fingers waggled in an approximation of spell casting “- and he ain’t told the Chantry?”

“Well, if he had...” Anders tried to tell the truth, it was easier to remember than a lie. “Wouldn’t they have sent the templars by now?”

There was a nod at that. “They ain’t been here in Darktown since he came. That is truth. Before that we was having to ‘show them the way’ to yer place every week.”

Anders’s eyebrows climbed into his hairline. “You showed them the way to my place?”

Stigs’s smile was frightening. “Yessir. Right into the old sump. Weren’t so eager to come back after that. They always sends different templars. Yer can tell by their armor. Dents and things. They gets more dents and things climbing out ‘er the sump.”

“I am much obliged to you, Stigs. Now take these. The tea is for your mother’s rheumatism. The poultices are for the sores on her legs. Let me know if there is any change for the worse, will you?” Anders found it easy to smile at the man, who was quite a character. It did not hurt knowing he was down on the templars as well.

Lirene and a coterie (small c) of Fereldan women used the clinic to prepare the dead bodies of their compatriots. The _elvhen_ living in Darktown instead of the alienage came to the clinic as well. There was no _vhenadahl_ in Darktown. Well, a dead branch had leant against a passage down in the sewers, and it had been called the Darktown _vhenadahl_ for several days before it had disappeared into a fire for heating.

Births, Sebastian learned, tended to come in waves. There were midwives that Anders depended upon. Sebastian was not involved in delivery, as the midwives were straightforward in their dislike of what they called “interference”, whether it came from the father of the babe or some Chantry interloper. Anders they tolerated, and he was often deferential. Anders told Sebastian that the Darktown midwives terrified him, and that they always carried a shiv in the back of their girdle.

In his time down here in the darkness, Sebastian had been hauled out of bed by Anders to trek to parts of Kirkwall that he had not known existed. Anders tended not to give aide to the Coterie nor the Carta, but there were always exceptions. Apostate mages came to the clinic for assistance as well, but not blood mages. “They don’t much care for me, the blood mages,” Anders had said after Hawke had asked them for help in tracking down a gang on the docks.

Sebastian missed his bow and armor, but took Hawke’s gift of a fairly sturdy equipage for use on their travels about Kirkwall at night. Hawke had been reticent at first about what he called “dragging Sebastian out to find other people’s rubbish”. Sebastian understood that the party was concerned about his reaction to blood magic. But since more and more abominations were coming to light lately, Hawke relented when Fenris pointed out that they were not shielding him well, if they took away Sebastian’s means of dealing with attack by blood magic.

Anders had kept silent on the debate beyond an initial statement that Sebastian was fit to decide for himself. 

Justice came out mostly at night, when Anders would close the clinic to begin work on his manifesto. Justice and Sebastian walked around each other on careful feet. Anders had made it clear that Sebastian was staying for now. Justice had made it clear that he considered Sebastian to be solidly in the enemy camp. Other than that, the spirit tended to ignore the Chantry brother. After a few attempts at getting the spirit involved in discussion, Sebastian avoided the spirit as well.


	15. Confessional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He said he would speak to her. How could that be managed?

Short, hard steady knocks on the nicely solid dark wood door distracted Elthina just as she was setting pen to paper for her next sermon. The text was to be from the Canticle of Threnodies, and with the events that had so recently been going on in Kirkwall, something to be very careful about. Elthiona needed to speak on one subject and ensure that her her flock did not hear something entirely different. Ignoring the interruption, she tried to bring the sentence back to mind so that she could write it down. Again, short, hard steady knocks sounded against the door. 

That type of knocking meant urgency. It also meant someone from the Chantry staff, as this section of the building was open only to them. Sighing, Elthina stood and went to open it only to find that no one was there.

A piece of cheap bleached paper had been rolled up and stuck into the handle, but the hallway was clear except for the little man, the ratcatcher, who was on his hands and knees before a chewed hole in the wainscoting, apparently calling softly to one of his ferrets. The other creature was peeking out of a tail pocket of the disreputable patched jacket the man always wore, looking at Elthina with eyes like small jet beads.

Elthina took the curled-up paper and looked again at the little man, who was dramatically ignoring her. Pulling the door shut behind her as she went back to her desk, Elthina sat and examined the scroll. Cheap paper, the kind that yellowed quickly, and the words, “Confession is good for the soul. Noon is a good time.”

Well. It was past the dinner hour now. Elthina thought she could put in service at noon in the confessional tomorrow. Twisting the note into a spill, she held it to the candle and let it catch fire and burn.

…

“Forgive me Grand Cleric, for I have sinned.” Anders was aware that he did not sound repentant. 

Understandably enough, since he was not repentant. He was uncomfortable being here, and nervous about what he was going to say. “Have you now?” Elthina’s voice through the wooden screen was amused.

Why would she be amused? he wondered. The Grand Cleric did not even know him. He was a mage - an apostate. “Will you hear my confession?” Anders had spent a good deal of time thinking this through.

“Of course.” It was said gravely, but Anders could imagine a spark of humor in her voice.

Anders paused and then said, “I confess to you that I am an apostate. Outside of the Circle. A mage, but not maleficar.”

Elthina paused as well. “My son, you have confessed, but to be absolved you must admit your wrongdoing, and return to the Circle. If you wish to do so, then I can facilitate this.”

“No, thank you, Grand Cleric, though I thank you for your offer,” Anders replied.

The Grand Cleric sighed. “You expect to use the sanctity of the confessional to speak to me, and keep me from discussing what I hear with Meredith or the authorities.”

Anders was tentative. “Will this work?”

“It will work,” Elthina said with a touch of asperity. “Though you will be making it difficult for me to effect any change this way. I do not understand what good it will do for you to meet with me like this. And you will not be doing yourself any good by continuing in your apostasy.”

“Elthina,” Anders said gently, “Meredith would hang me, if only to make an example. I will not turn myself over for death.

“Tranquility is not something I would discuss. If I come to the Chantry to speak to you like a normal person, then Meredith will demand my head.”

Elthina was silent, then asked, “What would you like to discuss, Anders?”

“I would like to tell you of a Tevinter magister named Corypheus,” Anders began.

…

After that first confession, Elthina would find a rolled-up piece of paper in odd places with a date and time. The material of the missive was never the same - sometimes a scraped piece of parchment - a palimpset - that was being reused, once a scrap that might have been a wealthy woman’s laundry list. It was not difficult to schedule herself for confession appropriately, and Elthina found herself looking forward to the talks with Anders. He was, as Sebastian had told her, a scholar. His vision was skewed, of course, but he gave her things to think about, items to research in the Chant of Light and other scholarly doctrinal writings. 

After the discussion on Corypheus and the destruction of the Golden City, Anders spoke to her about the things that Hawke and company had found in the bowels of Kirkwall, messages speaking of blood and magic and building evil from scholars identifying themselves as the Band of Three who sought answers to the enigma of Kirkwall. 

Anders was finding in Elthina a lively wit, a good mind, and a wealth of experience. Their talks were enjoyable, but there were points upon which they would never agree. Anders decided that on the next visit he would bring a copy of his manifesto.

…

Justice was angry.


	16. Dear Elthina

Sebastian read through what he had written.

“To Elthina, Grand Cleric of Kirkwall  
Servant of Andraste and the Maker

“Dear Elthina,

“It has been several weeks since I arrived here in the Darktown clinic. It has been an education. There are things here that I know you would find interesting. I miss our discussions, but even more I miss the day-to-day conversations we have had. And of course, I miss you!

“Darktown is filled with many types of people. There are _elvhen_ who cannot, or choose not to, live in the alienage. That includes a few Dalish, or former Dalish. There are devout Andrastians, Carta dwarves who swear “by the Stone” (even though Varric tells me they are surfacers with no ‘stone sense’), and dregs from every society on Thedas. The only folk I have not seen down here are Tal-Vashoth.

“When the clinic is open, we are very rarely alone. At night when the clinic is closed, the door is often opened for an emergency childbirth or fever. Anders does not charge the residents of Darktown for any of his services, though he has a small traffic in lotions, potions, tisanes, and herbal remedies through Lowtown and Hightown shops. 

“He charges the Blooming Rose to keep the workers healthy, or to handle accidental injuries. Since Anders will not take his pay in trade, Madame Lusine is one of the clinic’s steady sources of income, if only a small amount each week.”

Satisfactory so far. Nothing that would cross Chantry boundaries, though the Circle would have to be mentioned later. Sebastian nodded and continued reading.

“I have also come to know bodily fluids intimately, in various unpleasant ways. I knew that there would be blood, as Anders not only sews up gashes so large that I cannot believe the survival rate, but also delivers babies, and, I am told, is a deft hand with a saw when amputation is required.

“I have often heard of a man ‘venting his spleen’, but now I know exactly where in the body that spleen is, and what it actually looks like. Glistening and lumpy. Well, perhaps not lumpy, but like a mottled slug, actually.

“Anders closed the hole in a Bone Pit miner’s body with catgut - sterilized in some of the raw alcohol he gets from the Hanged Man - and a large curved needle, as big as a darning needle, but much sharper. 

“I have had babies drool on me, so you may add spit to the list, and been introduced to bile and lymph (bile is from the gallbladder and liver, while lymph is from the nodes around the body that swell with infection. If you remember Sister Althea’s red spot disease?). In addition, there has been ichor. Not from any human, but from miners who were attacked (in the Bone Pit again) by giant spiders. Anders has a supplier for poison antidotes, one of the _elvhen_ I mentioned before. According to Anders, many drugs and herbal remedies could be considered poisons as well.

“Among the workers in the clinic are midwives, women who come to prepare bodies for the pyre, men who carry patients in and out (or transport the dead to the pyre). There is an elderly woman, one of the devout Andrastians, who tries to keep Anders’s socks darned, his clothing mended and as clean as possible. Her son, who attends Chantry services with her each week, finds me suspicious. He is the ratcatcher for the Chantry, does not use poisons, and sells the rat meat he catches in Hightown as ‘clean’ meat to the inhabitants of Darktown. Have I now told you too much?”

Sebastian chuckled, imagining Elthina reading it and exclaiming over the thought of rat meat for supper.

“As for me, Anders is making me eat regularly, though the food is not what I have been used to (we do not eat rat, though nug is at times on the menu), and has dealt with my sleep issues.”

Sebastian laid down his pen, thinking of the man that circumstance had forced him on, the man with whom Sebastian shared such close quarters. 

One thing that Sebastian had been surprised about was the cleanliness of the healer. It had been a luxury Sebastian was sure he would miss. Living in Darktown, it was expected that the inhabitants would share the lack of access to bathing or soap and water that was endemic to the areas outside of Hightown. Truth was that Anders stole water from pipes intended for use by Hightown residents - this explained his choice in locating the clinic - and there was no lack for physical cleanliness, nor for the interminable scrubbing necessary for surgery or examination. There was a tin tub, but it was tight and not conducive to relaxing, nor to actually scrubbing one’s own body while in it. So they used a basin and wet cloths primarily. Fenris and Hawke had both invited Sebastian to their houses to use actual bathing rooms. Sebastian had not taken them up on the offers as of yet.

It was when Anders was bathing from the dented tin basin behind the blue curtain in their cramped shared living quarters that Sebastian had walked in on the man and seen the scars. Sebastian had known the man was scarred. Anders had referred to it over the years, and several scars on his arms were obvious. What Sebastian had not expected were the rank upon rank of long straight or slightly curved white lines starting at the top of Anders’ shoulders and marching down to the healer’s buttocks. Then, too, there was the vivid burn of a brand on Anders’s hip, something Sebastian had not seen on the man before. 

At Sebastian’s invasion Anders had quickly turned, hiding his back in an awkward manner, and answered questions, seemingly not bashful at being naked in front of Sebastian. Perhaps it was that he was more shy of the scars on his back than the ones on his front, obviously brought about by different agencies. Anders had explained his lack of shyness about the “casual nudity” as the result of living in a Circle apprentice’s dormitory for years.

This had not been the only jarring note, but it had been the one that stayed in Sebastian’s mind. Who had given the brand? Not a pleasant memory if Anders was so quick to hide it.

Sebastian was also beginning to suspect that Anders had lied when stating that he had never been raped by templars. Or had he said the templars of Kinloch Hold? Perhaps it had not been the Kinloch Hold templars who had done it. This was like a puzzle, and Sebastian felt drawn to try to understand it, to find the answer.

In addition, there were Anders’s mysterious meetings. Various from week to week, never the same night or day, and never the same time. Twice a week. Sebastian was never left to his own devices at these times. There was Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man, with Anders walking into the game halfway through. Sebastian had taken to meeting with Fenris and Donnic for Diamondback one night each week at Fenris’s mansion. Anders would often pick Sebastian up from these nights to walk him back to the clinic. 

Sebastian had asked outright if Anders was meeting with the Mage Underground. Anders had laughed in reply and stated that instead the healer was meeting with a lady who disapproved of magic. But what lady? From Hightown? And for what reason? Anders would not say.

The puzzles of Anders needed to be put aside though, or the letter would never be finished.

Picking up the pen, Sebastian began again: “I have exercised regularly by carrying crates of goods, and assisting with the carrying of bodies, alive and dead. Practice with the bow that Hawke has lent me is rather less regular, though Anders and I join Hawke and his companions for the hunting of malefactors throughout the Wounded Coast from time to time.

“Anders is also insistent that I continue with my meditations and study of the Chant. Thank you for the books you sent, as they have been useful in that pursuit. The paper has also been helpful, as I feel loathe to write in the margins of books as Anders does. He claims it is not a sin. I disagree (lightheartedly), and we have had intense debates on the importance of literacy. We are both supportive of educating as many as will choose to learn, but have taken turns in arguing the counter to it.

“I find that I had not understood the quality of scholarship that comes from a Circle education. Anders admits that he would have made a poor farmer. His dislike of ‘imprisonment’ in the Circle does not come from the employment of his intellect, but from ‘abuse of power’ as he says. I have been learning more of his background. It was not exactly as I had thought, although we still disagree on the regulation of mages in our society.

“Again, thank you for the commentaries on the Canticle of Shartan. I am currently discussing it with some of the _elvhen_ who visit the clinic. Anders told me that they come here solely for the purpose of hearing me read out loud and arguing in my Starkhaven accent. There are several Fereldan refugees down here as well who were scholars themselves, and we have a separate discussion on aspects of the Chantry in modern life. One of them has loaned me the newest book by Brother Genitivi. I am uncertain how he obtained it, a new and expensive book, while he lives in the dankest and most awful part of Kirkwall. Since I am not his confessor, it has become a moot point. Our discussions on the discovery of the Andrastian ashes have been lively.

“Thank you for your daily prayers. Please remember that you are in my prayers as well.

“Sebastian Vael  
Darktown”


	17. Anders knew the Chant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had to be doing more in the Circle than naughty things...,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you actually know Latin, and don't just use a free Internet translator, please message me with the correct wording. I would appreciate it.

Anders knew the Chant. All of it.

Anders could sing. It was a light tenor, untrained really, but pleasant enough.

Sebastian had been cleaning, scrubbing the surgical table and then bleaching it to ensure it was clean after Anders had done an amputation. It had been Sebastian’s first amputation, and Anders had said, “Maker, I wish it would be my last amputation!”

Sebastian had always sung at his work. After all, the point of Andraste’s song, of the Chant at all, was to make it heard throughout all corners of the world. Threnodies was beautiful - at least the beginning was - and Sebastian had begun singing it. The descant sounded behind him, Anders at his desk writing notes on the amputation. Sebastian had been singing for a while when he realized that it was Anders singing with him and stopped short to look at the mage over a shoulder from the table.

“What?” Anders had smirked. “Did you think I didn’t know it? What do you think we did in the Circle?”

Sebastian had scrubbed thoughtfully. “I have not thought about it. Would you tell me?”

“Lessons, mostly. Lessons on our schools of magic, lessons on other schools of magic. Lessons on the Chant. If you excelled in one of those you got special lessons.  
“There was a choir, and we were all encouraged to participate. Except for Karl. He was tone deaf, which made it a problem when he had to do certain types of spells in…” Anders faltered, then changed over to, “Lessons in politics, lessons in cultures, language lessons.”

“What languages do you speak, then?” Sebastian asked.

“Speak? My dear Sebastian, we were taught to read and write in the Trade tongue and Tevene, but could choose to learn Orlesian, Rivaini, Antivan, and dwarven if we had the talent for it. Antivan was required for potions masters. Dalish and Qunlat were left out. I can sing the Chant in Tevinter, Orlais, and Orzammar if I like.” Anders looked down at his papers and made a mark. “And I can read all of those languages. A healer needs to be able to speak to patients no matter where they come from. Of course, I only speak a little Rivaini and Antivan. Mostly dirty words.”

Sebastian laughed. “Then you are the only one of us who can understand Fenris when he curses in Tevene?”

Anders looked up. “I don’t think it is necessary for you to tell Fenris that, though -" he started and looked over to the clinic entrance. "Oh, Void!”

“Tell me what?” came a deep voice.

Anders looked pained. “That I can read, write, speak, and understand Tevene, Fenris. So I understand what you’re saying when you tell the slavers they can go stuff it.”  
Fenris was affronted. “I do not tell slavers they can ‘stuff it’!”

Anders stared directly at him. “You told the last one we saw that you were going to make him eat his cock by stuffing it so far up his ass that he could taste it. Didn’t you?”

Sebastian chuckled at Fenris’s look of satisfaction. “I believe that is an adequate translation,” came the reply. “But I do not see how concealing your understanding would be helpful.”  
Anders banged his head on his desk. “Because you would think it was a conspiracy of power-hungry mages, Fenris. What else? Why else?”

The _elvhen_ leaned against a column where he could see both the mage and his friend. “Two is not a conspiracy, Anders. Nor is one man and one demon. Which I believe is your current count.”

Sebastian chose this moment to step in, metaphorically as he was still scrubbing. “Anders could teach you to read Tevene, Fenris.”

“My lessons with Hawke are -” Fenris scuffed a foot at the dirt, “- on hold for now.”

“Why would Hawke be teaching you Tevene, Fenris? I did not think that Hawke spoke Tevene.” Anders was curious.

Fenris lifted his chin in defiance and glared down his nose. “Hawke is teaching me to read and write in the Common Trade tongue. Slaves are not taught such. It would be -” he sought a word “- inadvisable to give a slave such a tool.”

Anders’s head dropped into his hands. “Maker. Fenris, I didn’t realize. My apologies.”

“I do not need pity, mage!” A standard response.

There was a sigh. “No, but I wager Hawke is not a particularly good teacher, is he? Why are your lessons on hold?”

Sebastian watched the byplay. He had known that Fenris could not read nor write, and was touchy about it. Interesting to see Anders upset by the knowledge.

“He is busy. Meredith called him to the Gallows again,” Fenris grunted.

“Is Bethany alright?” came from Sebastian and Anders together.

Fenris shook his head. “Not Bethany. Some sort of -” he looked at Anders sideways from under the fringe of white bangs “- mage conspiracy.”

Anders pressed his lips together to keep the angry words inside. Sebastian rolled his eyes. He could see that Fenris had tried to make it into a joke, but this was a subject that never failed to get a rise out of Anders. “He is teasing you, Anders,” Sebastian said gently.

“Blessed are the Peacemakers, Champions of the Just,” Anders muttered.

That got a laugh from Sebastian, who smiled in welcome at Fenris. “We were singing the Chant, Fenris. Do you sing?”

Fenris shifted uncomfortably. “I have never tried.”

“With that voice?” Anders tried to get into the spirit. “That is a crime. Have you hummed?”

Now the _elvhen_ warrior was embarrassed. “It has been known to happen.”

“I bet I know your favorite part of the chant!” Anders began piously, “ _Veneficus futurus ut servo vir, quod nunquam rego super him. Turpis quod constupro es they Quisnam have captus Suus donum Quod verto is obviam Suus liberi. They vadum exsisto nomen Maleficar, scelestus ones. They vadum reperio haud sileo huic universitas Vel ultra._ ”

Then to Sebastian, in the event he had not figured which verse, he sang,  
“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.  
Foul and corrupt are they  
Who have taken His gift  
And turned it against His children.  
They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.  
They shall find no rest in this world  
Or beyond.”

Fenris waited patiently to the end of the verse, then said, “No. The verse I favor is ‘ _Omnes, qui erat natura silentio. Sonuit et vox de conditoris, Primum Verbum, Et quod sit Verbum; Somnium ideam animo spes timor, Interminatis possibilitates dispositis._ ’”

And for Sebastian: “All that existed was silence. Then the Voice of the Maker rang out, The first Word, And His Word became all that might be: Dream and idea, hope and fear, Endless possibilities.”

“You’re a romantic, Fenris,” Anders cried out.

“Now -” Fenris fixed him with a steely eye, “- your favorite verse is?”

Anders gave him a sly look. “You really want to know?

‘Then the Maker said:  
To you, my second-born, I grant this gift:  
In your heart shall burn  
An unquenchable flame  
All-consuming, and never satisfied.  
From the Fade I crafted you,  
And to the Fade you shall return  
Each night in dreams  
That you may always remember me’.”

"You see magic as the unquenchable flame,” Fenris said consideringly.

For a moment Anders’s face brightened, then dimmed with his accustomed control. “Yes. Not a curse, but a gift.”

Sebastian quoted quietly, "’The Maker said, 'I grant this gift'. And Andraste said, 'Who have taken his gift'.”

“Yes,” Anders returned just as quietly. “A gift from the Maker, which a few mages of evil intent put to black use, and doomed all mages forever after to servitude, imprisonment, and pain.”

Sebastian noted that the mage had not used the word “slavery”, in all probability to avoid Fenris’s offense at the comparison. He had heard the two of them argue it before. It seemed that, for the moment, the pair had reached an uneasy peace. Fenris sat on the table that Sebastian was cleaning. “What would you have me do?” the warrior asked.

“Sing with us,” Sebastian said, and restarted Threnodies, giving the melody line to Fenris, and once the _elvhen_ had the right of it, moved to sing in harmony. When the harmony started and Fenris had proven able to continue, Anders picked up the descant and the three gave a good accounting through a number of chapters, breaking off when a slow clapping interrupted them.

“That was beautiful,” grinned Hawke, still clapping along with with a smiling Varric.

Merrill peeked around Varric with a look of solemn joy, while Isabela had stuffed a hand in her mouth to keep from giving them away with her laughter. That giggle erupted now, though her smile was not malicious as Sebastian knew it could have been.

“Thank you, Thank you!” Anders stood and gave a stagy bow. “Performances every fifth Tuesday of the month! What did you need, Hawke? Never mind, the spider guts give you away!”

“We had thought to borrow our healer, Anders, but I can see that the three of you are on to grander things!” Hawke laughed.

“Good healing begins and ends with laughter! Not so much song.” Anders smiled, and waved them over to the freshly scrubbed table.

It was a small enough event in their lives, but led to a number of evenings of song at the Hanged Man thereafter, for Merrill missed the singing of her clan and Isabela encouraged them for the Dalish woman’s sake. Isabela’s songs tended toward the bawdy and comedic. Sebastian should not have been surprised that Anders knew most of those quite well. Varric taught them some dwarven folk tunes, sonorous and full of heroes and death. Aveline surprised them with some Orlesian ballads, while Donnic watched her, fascinated, though Aveline did not treat them to the songs of her namesake.

And the day after the original event, when Fenris arrived at the clinic, Anders sat with him and took the time to work on his reading. Sebastian was surprised to find that Anders had taught in the Circle. “Though not,” Anders said, “reading. Mostly healing.”

Anders gave Fenris no choice. He was appalled, though he never said as much to Fenris, that anyone would not be able to read. The man lived in the depths of Darktown, where education was rare for many, and yet it had not occurred to him that any of their companions could not be literate, especially Fenris who used words so well. Fenris was not inclined to argue about the lessons, and worked steadily at reading and writing at Anders’s desk while Anders and Sebastian completed clinic chores or assisted patients.

Hawke gave no complaint about the healer taking over Fenris’s lessons, but adequate paper, pens, and books appeared in the clinic without comment after he learned that Anders was playing teacher.

...

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond  
For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light  
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.  
-Trials 1:14


	18. Tasting Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyrium. Addictive and intoxicating!

Sebastian found much of the work at the clinic to be the humble service he had done before. There was cleaning. There was always cleaning. Cleaning of the room, cleaning of the instruments that Anders used, and cleaning of the various bodies, alive and dead, that arrived at the clinic. There were repetitive chores that would save the healer time in the long run. And there was speaking to those who sought aid and comfort. Sebastian was finding it easier to interact with the population of Darktown than with those whom he had served at the Chantry. Fewer of them knew him. Fewer of them expected anything of him, and the suspicion with which they viewed him was what they gave to everyone.

When Sebastian remarked upon it, Anders had warned him, it would not last. “There’s a reason why you cannot run from trauma. You have to find your own inner healing, or the anger, the pressure, the sadness follows you, and gets worse. When you go home to the Chantry -” Anders always spoke of this as temporary, of Sebastian going “home” “- it will be hard, but you will be able to take up your work again.”

Sobering thought.

Twice that particular week Anders “ran an errand”, leaving the lamps unlit and Sebastian alone in the clinic rolling bandages at the long table, or chopping elfroot for poultices. After the second “errand” the healer returned holding a crate about two feet square. A heavy crate, and yet the man carried it with an ease that was at odds with his appearance.

“Bolt the door, please.” Anders’s directions to Sebastian were always courteous. Exceptions were in a medical crisis, which so far had included a difficult breech birth and the amputation of a miner’s crushed limb. 

Anders set the crate on the massive table across from Sebastian’s bandage rolling process. He shook his head at Sebastian’s systematic and compulsive organization of materials in order of use. Sebastian was proud of the organized line, and had been pleased when Anders commented on it. Now the “Healer’s Assistant”, as the residents of Darktown were calling him, continued his work as he watched the healer with interest.

Prying up the crate lid revealed small bottles, potion vials, packed in straw. Lyrium was a substance with which Sebastian was becoming very familiar. Anders used it rarely. By choice, Anders had told Sebastian, as lyrium was a poison, horribly addictive, and a source of infinite trouble among the templars who craved the stuff. In point of fact, Anders had used all of his stock on Sebastian weeks ago, and had been managing without it for that long. Managing was not as good as having it when needed.

Sebastian was also not certain where Anders had gotten the money to purchase this quantity of an illicit material. Elthina had yet to release the box of coin, and so Sebastian had not thought much of it. Better not to tell Anders it was coming and then be forced to wait. Possibly Anders had blackmailed someone for the mineral; Sebastian had heard rumors to that effect from Varric. Anders was not an innocent when it came to providing for his clinic, as Sebastian had come to learn. Anders told him that Grey Wardens used whatever means they could to get to an objective. Anders had been surprised though to find that Varric was paying the Coterie and Carta to leave the Clinic and its healer alone.

Anders set the bottles out on the table - there were many of them - breaking down the crate for firewood and piling the straw with the scraps by the pit used to heat the vast and echoing cavern that was the clinic. “Sebastian -” Anders straightened the bottles into rows of glowing, swirling blue “- I usually do this alone. I may...” There was a significant pause. “Become intoxicated.”

The rest of the sentence came out in a rush: “If I do, then you should go to the Hanged Man by yourself for cards tonight.”

Anders had been solid as adamantine about their regular attendance to this point. He had even consumed what passed for alcohol in the Hanged Man, though not to the point of sloppy drunkenness. “Why?” Sebastian asked this question often, and his fingers did not stop working.

“Lyrium tends to make me loquacious, unfit for company. Can you imagine what secrets Isabela might pry out of me under that terrible influence?” Anders quirked a smile as his long fingers moved the lyrium according to a fancy of his own.

Producing a metal spoon from seemingly nowhere, Anders concentrated and the spoon flared hot. Waving the piece of metal to cool it, Anders went on, “I can always tell the good lyrium from the bad. That isn’t an issue no matter how much I’ve taken. The problem is that my judgment is not…” Anders was at a loss for polite words. “Since you lot think my judgment is bad at the best of times, under the influence of lyrium I avoid contact with pretty much everyone.”

Anders poured the tiniest drop of the swirling blue on the tip of the spoon, lifted it to his lips, and tasted the potion, rolling the solution in his mouth as Fenris would a sup of wine. The stopper went back into the bottle, was pressed to secure, and then the lyrium was placed to the side. “That one was okay,” Anders commented.

“What are you looking for?” Sebastian asked as Anders moved to a second bottle.

“Looking for impurities. Looking for adulterated product. Looking for it not to be lyrium at all. It wouldn’t do to swallow down a potion in an event of extremity and fall over dead in the middle of healing a beheading, now would it?” Stopper secured, the spoon flared again, waved, then a next tiny bit from the third bottle.

“I have not noticed any increase in loquacity.” Sebastian enjoyed the educated use of words by Anders, Fenris, Hawke and Varric.

Anders gave him a relaxed grin. “Builds up.”

After a while Sebastian gave a chuckle. “Not much good trying to cure a beheading.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” Anders paused in his almost nonstop ritual and gave his head a small shake. “What was I trying to cure?”

“Beheading.” Sebastian watched as Anders moved like clockwork, tasting, purifying the equipment, and sorting.

“No, although between beheading and being Tranquil, I prefer to _be_ beheaded,” Anders said without thought.

Thinking about Anders's favorite verse from the Chant, Sebastian could see that Tranquility, the rite to remove a mage's contact with the Fade, would be a severance from the Maker himself for Anders. Was that true of all mages then? Was the Rite of Tranquility an attempt by man to control another man's contact with the Maker? Something to discuss with Elthina, Sebastian thought. And possibly with Anders at some other point in time.

The vials continued to be tested. One was given a second taste and then removed from the organized ranks, not moved to the “tested and meeting approval” huddle further down the table.

Sebastian thought of another question. “If the lyrium is that intoxicating, how can you tell if it’s bad? And why wouldn’t a templar be able to?”

“Its taste. The taste is distinctive.” There was a sound behind Anders, and afterward Fenris appeared in the shadows behind the healer, leaning against a pillar and listening.

Anders was not noticing Fenris though, which was unusual. “An educated templar might know. They’d have to be used to doing more than gulping their fix down though. One of the benefits of my union with Justice as well. Justice knows lyrium. It’s one of the reasons why I always know when Fenris is around. Justice tells me. Justice says Fenris sings.”

Fenris lifted an expressive eyebrow at that. Sebastian looked at him questioningly while Anders’s attention was on a wax stopper. Fenris shook his head slightly, and Sebastian decided not to alert Anders. He asked, “Fenris…sings? Well, yes, I’ve heard him sing. Not often.”

“Not like when we sang the Chant. Lyrium makes a noise. His lyrium makes a special noise. Maker, this lot is loud. My head is ringing. I don’t usually acquire quite this many bottles of lyrium at one time. 

“Justice had a ring once. Not...not a musical ring, a jewelry one. When he was in Kristoff’s body. Made entirely of lyrium. Justice told us that the lyrium ring, which was poison to anything living, made a beautiful singing noise. He wanted to return with it to the Fade to allow his friends there to hear it. He could listen to it for hours. Which was good, because it kept him company when Kristoff’s corpse began to get a little ripe. And bits began to drop off.”

Sebastian winced, but found himself prodding Anders, “And Fenris’s lyrium brands sing?”

Anders waved the spoon as a baton. “Like a wonderful chorus! I can’t hear it quite as Justice does, but I can feel a part of it.”

“All of that -” Anders waved a little himself “- is why I know when we’re close to lyrium in the tunnels, and when Fenris appears like a cat out of the darkness.”

Sebastian hoped that was amusement on Fenris’s face. Anders’s hands were moving over the vials no less carefully now, but in what Sebastian could only describe as a sensual manner, lingering on the smooth glass. The tasting was taking a fraction longer now, Anders’s tongue flickering out to capture the blue shimmering drop on the spoon, then closing his eyes to taste.

No longer looking at Sebastian, caught up in his task, the mage did not stop talking. “Fenris. Yes. I hope -” Anders was fervent “- that I will be there when Danarius catches up to Fenris.”

The _non sequitur_ was jarring. It was impossible not to see the anger on the elven face behind Anders, even in shadow. Sebastian found himself asking in an arctic tone, “What do you mean?”

Anders paused in his fondling of the lyrium vials. “I want to help him kill Danarius. What he did to Fenris, and no doubt to countless others, goes against everything a healer stands for.

“Do you know what had to take place for those mar -” there was a small hiccup but only a small one, then “- those markings?”

“No,” Sebastian admitted, “only that the pain was so bad that it stole away Fenris’s memory.”

“That may actually be the truth, or part of it,” Anders said thoughtfully, “Pain can do that. But it is more likely part of the procedure, far more likely that Danarius sealed off Fenris’s memories deliberately. Why build a killing machine and leave any possibility of loyalty to anything else? Family, friends, Fenris might even have been Andrastian.”  
Fenris’s look of rage had turned to the blank mask of surprise. Sebastian was silent, thankful that the _elvhen_ had not put his hand through the healer’s back in his fury. Sebastian’s earlier coldness had penetrated Anders’s lyrium-based haze. “Did you think I would want to turn Fenris over to that son of a broodmother?”

That confused Sebastian, but he did not ask, “Broodmother? What is a broodmother?” out loud. Sebastian felt unreal as Anders reached for the next vial, totally ignorant of Fenris’s thoughtful face behind him. After the next taste of lyrium, he said, “Let me enlighten you, Sebastian.” Anders moved through his procedure, then on to the next vial. “Fenris would have been awake for the procedure. Pain and awareness are part of blood magic, to help fuel the spell and increase power in the blood.

“There would be a pattern drawn on Fenris’s skin to begin with, probably with sterile charcoal. The knives used to carve the design into his body would have been sharp, surgical knives. There could be no mistake in the pattern. It must be exact.”

Sebastian was certain his face mirrored the sickness in his stomach. This brought what Ostea had done out of his personal realm in a vivid and excruciating way. Fenris’s face was stone, but no longer from surprise. Sebastian wondered if Fenris was still listening, or was reliving the memory as Sebastian had off and on since what Anders called “his trauma”.

“After the lines were cut, a molten alloy mixture was poured - carefully, mind you, not spilling a drop to mar the pattern - into the cuts while spells bound it to Fenris’s body. The scalding - no, burning alloy had to have been attached to his nerves, muscles, bones, and blood through magic, and done in such a way that he would not die from his exposure to the lyrium. Maker only knows what they put in that alloy to get it to mimic part of the body.

“If he ever does let you touch his brands,” Anders grimaced, “they feel like scar tissue. Old tissue that I cannot heal.”

Sebastian’s hands had long ceased their work, caught up in the horror of the description. “Danarius -” Fenris jerked at the name “- had to have clinical detachment to do this. Had to have seen Fenris not as a person, but as a tool to be crafted, like ironwood or metal.

“And that was only the beginning of what he did.” Anders finished the last of the lyrium potions and closed his eyes. “There are some days when I wish I did not know so much about the way the body works.

“Sometimes it is hard to keep seeing my patients as people, when I could choose to distance myself and just look at them as objects. Tasks to be accomplished. But to do that I would lose everything that makes me a decent healer. If I cannot empathize with a hurt, not to the point of it crippling what I do, mind you, but really look at what that person is going through, then I miss part of the healing process for that being.

“And you know what, Sebastian?” Anders opened his eyes, still brown but distressed. “I can never do enough. I try to help, but there will always be more.”

With sick fascination, Sebastian watched those tired brown eyes glow an icy swirling blue matching the lyrium on the table between them. The rumbling duality of a voice boomed, “Fenris is here” and then the light faded, leaving only Anders, his head cocked and listening. “How long have you been standing there, Fenris?” Anders asked lightly. “Puts my claim to know when you’re about to shame. Wouldn’t you say, Sebastian?”

Sebastian winced. Anders turned and asked, “So. How long have you been here?”

“Long enough,” Fenris replied dryly.

“Yes, well.” Anders stuck the rejected vial in a pocket, then began to gather the other bottles, “Take Sebastian off to the Hanged Man, won’t you? I’m going to stay in tonight and catch up on my reading.”

Fenris studied the healer. “You will not be joining us, then?”

Anders laughed shortly, juggling the small bottles. “A lyrium high and the Hanged Man. Even with the buzz killed, not a good combination. I believe it best if I just stay home. Such as it is.”

Fenris stepped forward, reached around Anders and deftly scooped up a goodly number of the potions. “You will not be drinking. You never do. What is the harm?  
“Or -” this was said with a twist of smile in the corner of his mouth “- do you not trust us? Perhaps we will take advantage of your intoxicated state to steal away your fabulous wealth at Wicked Grace?”

This laugh was nervous as Anders watched Sebastian stand and collect the remainder of the lyrium. “Trust and Isabela do not go hand in hand.” Anders glanced at the _elvhen_. “Sorry, Fenris. And then there is Varric with his ever present pen, waiting for untold stories.”

The _elvhen_ warrior and the Starkhaven prince looked at him expectantly. Looking down at his armful, the healer led them to a plain wall that opened with a kick. Inside a small alcove were shelves filled with boxes, jars, and potion racks. Below were several small locked trunks. Anders filled two empty racks with the bottles he carried, then took Fenris’s and Sebastian’s and quickly reorganized them on the shelf devoted, apparently, to lyrium.

Kicking the thick stone door shut, Anders watched with amusement as Fenris and Sebastian searched the wall for the now hidden cache. “Lyrium is a highly illegal substance. I know you are both aware of that. And Maker help me if the templars raid the clinic and find anything in that cupboard.”

Anders pulled the remaining bottle from his pocket and set it on his desk. “What about that?” Fenris asked.

“Oh, that isn’t lyrium. Not certain what it is, or how they made it look shiny and swirly and blue as it is, but definitely not lyrium. I will make certain my supplier knows about it. Wouldn’t do for him to be handing that out to the templars. They’re not as forgiving as I am.” Anders was looking at the desk filled with pages of manuscript without enthusiasm.

Fenris was watching the mage again, but Fenris was always watching the mages when Sebastian was around them. “Perhaps we should forgo The Hanged Man tonight.”  
Anders plastered on a smile. “No, I think you both should go and have a good time. Make Corff tell you about his writing! He writes about Grey Warden heroes! Speed griffons, yet!”

Sebastian picked up the cue that Fenris sent him with a look. “What are you suggesting instead, Fenris?”

“Perhaps we could -” it came out not exactly hesitantly, but definitely careful “- repair to my mansion and examine the contents of the wine cellar. There is more there than I can drink in thirty years. Wine goes bad if it is not imbibed. It is better shared. And I am sure that any untold stories that happen to be shared will not appear in any published work or friend-fiction?”

Sebastian grinned. “An excellent idea, Fenris!”

Anders looked from Sebastian to Fenris. His question was uncertain. “You are seriously inviting me into your home? To drink with you?”

Fenris’s nod was indeed quite serious.

“Then -” Anders gave a courteous nod in reply “- I accept your kind invitation.”


	19. In a bottle of wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinking with Fenris and Anders.

It had been too good to last, Sebastian thought, when he had unwittingly offended Anders. This was different from the many times he had said things to argue with the mage in the past.

The evening had started well enough, the three of them at Fenris’s mansion, which was not becoming any cleaner or better cared for as the years went on. Sebastian had grown up in a palace, which had been clean, if drafty. The Chantry sparkled with cleanliness from the polishing of the Lay Sisters and faithful parishioners from Lowtown. Here fungus grew on the stairs and in odd places on the floors. Sebastian was unsure if the black marks on the walls were charring from a fireball, old blood, or mold.

Anders, Sebastian noted, ignored the crumbling building. Of course, Anders lived in Darktown, which was not much better. Possibly there were fewer corpses in Darktown, Sebastian thought.

Fenris led them down into the wine cellar, through heavy stonework holding a thick wooden door into a cool dry square room cut into the rock below Kirkwall. Anders stared open-mouthed at rack upon rack of bottles of all sizes. They were dusty, and it was impossible to see the color in the dimly lit room. The wine cellars of Castle Starkhaven were much more extensive. Sebastian had hidden in them as a child. 

Reading the labels, the prince could see some excellent vintages. Fenris seemed to know exactly which to choose, though he did not look at a single label. Sebastian noticed now that Anders was peeking at the labels as Fenris loaded bottles into his arms, and quietly murmuring what he read from the labels. Fenris slowed and began to look at the writing as Anders read the words slowly. Finally noticing the extent of the pile of bottles, Anders laughed, “Andraste’s knickers, Fenris! We can’t drink all of this?”

Remembering the scandalous days of his youth, Sebastian laughed as well when Fenris replied, “We can but try!”

Fenris had a way of using his phasing powers to pop the corks out of the dusty bottles. “Aggregio Pavali,” he told them. “I have six bottles left. Danarius had me serve this to his guests. My presence intimidated them. He enjoyed that.”

“Can’t see that,” Anders joked as he took a mouthful from one of only two visible (and clean) glasses. “Since nobody in Kirkwall finds you intimidating at all. Not one of us. How come you get your own bottle?”

“My house, my bottles,” Fenris replied. “Also, I have only two glasses. Would you prefer a bottle?”

Anders appeared to be listening. Shaking his head, he said, “Yes. I would like my very own bottle of intoxicating fluid.”

Sebastian could not help himself. “What did Justice say, Anders?”

“Nothing!” Anders caught the tossed green bottle with very little spillage. “Which is surprising.”

Fenris eyed him. “Has Justice -” he thought to formulate the question precisely “- ever been drunk?”

Anders grinned. “No. When he was in Kristoff’s body he did not eat or drink, just decayed, and alcohol had no effect on him. Oghren - he’s a dwarven Warden - tried. 

“Justice does not like it when I drink. Says it takes me away from my duties. Surprisingly he is okay about the lyrium testing. Lets me go off to my cot and…well, relax a bit.”

“Relax?” Sebastian asked as he watched Anders read the label on the green bottle.

“Relax,” Anders said absently, making the age-old hand gesture for tossing off. “Moss wine. From Orzammar. Interesting,” he said before taking a sip from the bottle’s neck.

Fenris had cocked his head, watching Anders read the bottle with a momentarily sad expression. His face cleared, then asked, “What do you think of that?”

“It’s a little bitter.” Anders rolled it around his mouth. “Strong, too. I would expect that from a wine made in Orzammar, though.”

“May I?” Sebastian held his glass out, and Anders cordially filled it.

“Fenris.” Anders turned his attention back to the _elvhen_. “I know that you do not care much for ale, but Oghren used to make the best ale I have ever tasted. Not like Corff’s stuff. It was spicy.”

“Spicy?” Fenris took a drink from his bottle, but looked interested.

Anders nodded, drinking from his own bottle. “Yeah, like a slight taste of cloves with the grain and hops.”

Sebastian was interested as well. “He added cloves to his ale?”

“I am not sure how he got the taste in there. In the Circle it was the -” Anders paused then went on softly “- Tranquil who made the ale, the wines and cordials.”

Sebastian asked, mostly to get Anders’s mind away from the subject of the Tranquil, “Have either of ye ever tasted Uiskieba? The water of life?”

Anders laughed. “Akvavit? My father drank that.”

“No, I have had akvavit, and it’s very different. Strong though, like Uiskieba. I am not certain what akvavit is made from. Uiskieba is made from grain, distilled. Our fields provide grain for ale and the Uiskieba, but we do not have grapes in the quantity that they do in Orlais or Tevinter. Our grapes are small, with sour skins, big seeds, and not suitable for wine.” Sebastian thought back to Starkhaven, to home, and to eating wild grapes while hunting on a summer day, skin first, then the center.

The talk went on about this and that as the level of drink in the bottles got lower and lower. The first glass bottle that Fenris, finishing his drink ahead of both humans, threw against the wall surprised them both. “Maker, Fenris!” Anders jumped and spit moss wine over himself.

Sebastian, who was trying to decide if he liked the odd-tasting moss wine found the contents of his glass flying out and onto the dusty floor. “Anders, have you never noticed the glass on the floor before? Or the wine stains on the wall?”

“Generally,” Anders pointed out, “we pick Fenris up in the main hall.”

“Akvavit?” asked Fenris. “Is that a drink from the Anderfels?”

Anders nodded. “Clear, no color, or maybe a light blue, but powerful. The name means Water of Life, as I am guessing Uiskieba does.”

“Do you remember the Anderfels, Anders?” Sebastian asked curiously.

“No. Not at all. My father missed it though. Mother, not so much. It may be cold in Ferelden, at least compared to here, but it’s colder still in the Anderfels.” The mage took a long drink of the moss wine before saying, “Fenris is the most traveled of us, I expect.” He twirled the dark green wine bottle.

“Why would you think that?” Sebastian was comfortably tipsy.

Anders, his head resting back against the padding of the chair, looked to Sebastian. “Where all have you been?”

“Starkhaven -” this brought a laugh from them all “- Tantervale, Kirkwall. All the city states of the Free Marches, actually. Ferelden with my parents. Orlais with Elthina.”

“Beats me.” Anders started counting on his fingers. “Born in the Anderfels but don’t remember it, Ferelden, Kirkwall. Oh, and the Deep Roads. Kal’Hirol, not Orzammar.”

The men looked at Fenris, who was also leaning back in his chair, one leg dangling over an arm. “Tevinter,” was said in that deep voice. “Seheron, Antiva, Kirkwall.” A gulp of wine. “That I know of.”

Sebastian repeated, “That you know of.”

Anders drank, then said thoughtfully, “Not that I can go back to any place I’ve been.”

Fenris joined in, “Nor I. Antiva, possibly.”

“Sebastian can go anywhere he likes.” Anders waved the empty bottle at the man.

Sebastian said without thinking, “You could always switch. Fenris could tour Ferelden. Anders could go to Tevinter.”

Fenris growled. Anders reached into his tunic, pulling out an amulet. “Hawke gave me this the other day.”

It was a Tevinter amulet. Sebastian leaned forward to look. “By the Void, Anders! That thing could get you hanged. What in Thedas was Hawke thinking? And why would you be wearing it?”

“Why do you think?” Anders said sharply. “Because Hawke gave it to me. He isn’t threatened by the thought of free mages.”


	20. Anderfels white

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders speaks.

“He should be,” Fenris snarled. “The only ‘free mages’ in Tevinter are blood mages. Mages who have enslaved and betrayed for an ounce of power.”

Anders tucked the amulet away. “As you think I will do because I’m a mage? As you both thought I would do? This afternoon when I brought up Danarius?

“I would not hand anyone over to filth like that.” The remark was bitter but unsurprised. “Sebastian, I am not you. And I am not Fenris. What? Did you think I didn’t hear you and Fenris talking about turning the blood mage and me over to the Gallows?”

“If you heard that, then you know that Fenris refused to do so.”

Anders laughed at that, an ugly bark. “Fenris would be perfectly happy to hold me down for the Tranquility Brand. But only if Hawke gave the word for it. Which Hawke is not about to do.”

He looked away. “Not that you and Fenris ‘believe’ I would be made Tranquil. So much easier to think I would be held by the Templars for my own good.

“Here in the Gallows it would be my sentence. Meredith seems to like using it, although she has hanged Templars for insubordination. She found them to be ‘soft’ on mages. The number of Tranquil has increased steadily over the last three years. It is rare that you see a mage in the courtyard of the Gallows anymore.

“In Ferelden and Orlais I would be hanged without a trial or a second thought. You see, I supposedly murdered templars who had captured me. I murdered them from inside a prison cell. With my ‘magic’.”

The grin now was as bitter as his tone. Sebastian listened stone-faced and Fenris looked feral waiting. “They died outside the prison cell. Surrounded by dead darkspawn. But it was not the darkspawn who killed them, according to the Chantry. Oh, no. It was the healer mage who had a history of running away, of promiscuity, but not of violence or blood magic. First rule of a runaway mage is don’t cast spells at the templars. Don’t attack the templars. Because once you do, they will never let you live.”

Anders leaned forward, hands on his knees, ignoring Fenris who also leaned forward protectively. “Do you know what, Sebastian? I did kill them. They screamed for my help as the darkspawn tore them apart. They pleaded for me to save them. At the last moment they threw me the key to the cuffs throttling my magic. I unlocked those cuffs. And then I did nothing. I did not even pray for their souls!” Anders’s voice was now a shout: “I just watched them die!”

Sebastian reached for words and found calm certainty in the voice of the confessional. “Do you think you could have saved the templars, Anders?”

Not what Anders had expected and it threw him. “I...yes. No. Maybe. The point is that I did not even try. Safe in my little prison of iron bars. Standing in the corner where the darkspawn could not reach me.

“It did not occur to the darkspawn to search the templars’ bodies for the cell key to winkle me out. It had not occurred to the templars to throw me that particular key. They did not want me to escape again, you see. They wanted my help, but they would not release me. They had to take me back, they said, to be made Tranquil. Then I would have been put to making healing poultices all day for Owain to dispense. Useful work. 

“Amazing that I could be asked to save them, but there would be no help from that quarter after I did. And after that there was no peace. The templars demanded my return after I helped clear Vigil’s Keep with the man who released me from that cage. To hang, they told Warden Commander Mahariel, for the deaths of those templars. Foregone conclusion. No trial, or not a fair one anyway. He refused to hand me over. I was conscripted by the Grey Wardens. Conscripted. That means I had no choice, no say in the matter, but at the time it was better than hanging. I thought it was almost freedom!

“The templars from Amaranthine’s Chantry set up a trap just for me. To catch me, so they could hang me for my ‘murders’. Or so they said then. ‘Maleficar’ they called me, though I was a healer, not a blood mage. I was out of their jurisdiction by that time. Rylock attacked the Warden-Commander, the Hero of Ferelden, the man who stopped the Blight. He refused to hand me over. And the templar died. Of a sword through the heart, along with the other two templars with her. But those have been added to my list of murders.

“And then they sent a templar to _join_ the Grey Wardens to get at me. I don’t think they understood exactly what would happen to him when he became one. The Wardens keep the Joining secret. But fanatics -” Anders looked away from Sebastian “- are willing to do almost anything for their cause.”

“Yes,” said Fenris, his gaze never leaving Anders.

Who ignored him. “And so, he became ‘one of us’ and made my life hell. Watching me, sneering at me, prodding at me, and then setting me up. If I tried to pick up a companion for the night in a bar, he was there, letting them know it would be ‘unwise’.

“I could not go to Commander Mahariel; the Wardens had called him to Weisshaupt and replaced him with an Orlesian. I was unable to plead with King Alistair, he was out of my reach. 

“And then my Brother, the templar Warden opened the gates to Vigil’s Keep so that a force of templars could come in and take me. 

“Justice stood with me. Justice saved me from them. I opened myself to Justice, and he used my body to rip the templars apart with my bare hands. When I awoke they were dead in a circle around me. Their blood literally on my hands.” Anders’s voice sounded far away now. “I escaped to Kirkwall to try to free Karl. My first lover and my first love. And I murdered him as well. Or his body, because Meredith killed his soul.

“Fenris, you wanted to know why Karl was made Tranquil? He was sentenced to it because he knew me. It was his sole crime. A scholar, a teacher, and a good and gentle man. And because he knew me, they took away the Fade and destroyed him. To get to me. You heard him when he begged me to kill him. So I put a blade through his heart.

“Yes. I am a mage. And a murderer. And tainted. And…an ‘abomination’. But even so I would not turn Fenris over to Danarius.” Anders threw his head back and swallowed the rest of the wine in the bottle. “And therefore, after that lovely bit of confession and self-pity I must get back to the clinic.” He stood unsteadily. “Sebastian, perhaps it would be better for you not to rely on the hands of a murderer for healing. I would understand if you chose to go back to the Chantry.”

Anders did not think they would try to stop him, but the response was not what he expected. “ _Pax, magus_ ,” came from Fenris, who tossed him another bottle of wine from the gaggle of bottles next to his chair. “Sit down and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

Clutching the cool bottle to his chest with both arms, Anders sank back into the chair.

Sebastian looked at Anders keenly. When he spoke, it was with that gentleness that he used with his parish. “Were they the templars that raped you? The ones who put that mark on you?”

Anders started. “No. I do not even have that excuse, Sebastian.”

Fenris looked from one to the other. “Mark? What mark?”

The look Anders gave the _elvhen_ stretched out long before he stood and pulled off the tunic. Turning his back to both men, Anders pulled down the hip of his trousers, exposing an angry red burn scar, a brand that shone over the marks of frequent scourging that lined the rest of his back. “You...” Fenris had not seen Anders unclothed before. “How often were you beaten?”

Anders laughed unpleasantly. “Frequently. I was not a -” He swallowed audibly. “I was rebellious, they said. Karl and Wynne healed the welts when they were allowed. I was -” another pause ”- not allowed to heal myself. It could have been worse. I -” there was a hoarse clearing of the throat ”- was valuable. Healers are.”

Fenris moved closer, and Sebastian behind him, to look at the brand on Anders’s hip. Now Sebastian could see that it was a stylized tower around a flaming sword, with uneven burn scars below formed into the letters K, H, C.

“KHC,” Sebastian said aloud, more for Fenris than himself. “What do the letters mean, Anders?”

“Kinloch Hold Circle.” Anders’s voice was thick, as though he were having trouble speaking. “They mean I am the property of the Kinloch Hold Circle. The brand is the one the templars use on the horses there. Are we done with this?”

“Yes.” Sebastian reached forward to put a hand to Anders’s shoulder, then thought better of it. ”Thank you.”

Anders had turned to face them, or rather to hide the scarring. It was second nature by this time, really. Fenris’s eyes went to Anders’s chest, as he pulled his tunic along his arms and then up over the blond head. “You have many scars. Battle scars?” This was said in the tone of one warrior speaking to another.

Anders looked down at his cloth-covered chest. “Well, yes. From fighting darkspawn at Vigil’s Keep.”

“You speak of disliking the Deep Roads a great deal. Why?” Fenris asked.

Anders snorted. “Besides the obvious, you mean?”

Fenris amended, “Well, aside from what we came across with Hawke when the Carta went mad. But you knew when the darkspawn were about. It is a dangerous place, but less so for a Grey Warden.”

Anders took a drink from the new bottle and refused to meet his eyes. “Darkspawn this, darkspawn that. Taint taint taint taint taint. After a while you just get so tired of it, you know?” 

“I do now.” Fenris rolled his eyes. 

Looking up at Fenris, Anders rolled up his sleeve. “This one is from a genlock that Pounce saved me from. He swatted the bugger’s nose. Drew blood, too.”

“You took your cat into battle against darkspawn? This is the cat that the Wardens made you give up?” Fenris was incredulous.

“Ser Pounce-a-lot.” Anders sounded wanly amused. “Yes. The one I told Hawke about. It wasn’t Mahariel that made me give him up. The Warden-Commander gave Pounce to me. I carried him in my pack. It was the Orlesian that replaced the Commander. The one who let the templar into our ranks. Said the cat made me too soft.”

Fenris was looking at the fire now. “Your friends - the ones you speak of, Howe and Oghren - they did nothing to help you?”

“Justice -” Anders started only to be interrupted.

“I do not wish to hear about Justice.” Fenris glanced at Anders.

“No,” Anders sighed. “You wouldn’t. But it has a bearing. No. Nathaniel was the one who spoke to Justice first about finding a body to host him. When Mahariel was called to Weisshaupt, he tried to leave Nathaniel in charge. The Wardens thought differently. Neither Nathaniel nor Oghren were there when I was attacked. They were out on patrol. Which is why that bastard chose to try to take me then.

“Justice...well, the Orlesian commander, and most of the new men, had little use for Justice. Which is why he was still at the Keep when the Templars came.”

Fenris looked directly at Anders. “And so, you escaped the templars once again, ran away and came here. To Kirkwall. Where the templars are particularly stringent.”

It made Anders laugh, that comment, and he held up his hands in protest. “I admit that it was not the easiest nor the brightest decision I have made. And as we have discussed so often before, I am good at running away.” He left out the thought he had voiced so often that Fenris was at least as good at the running part.


	21. Aggregio Pavali

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris' reply.

“Yes. Yes. Escaping. Sebastian knows about my escape from slavery, about my... Running Away.” Those last words were emphasized, echoing Anders’s thoughts. Fenris sucked down wine from his bottle, then stared up into Anders’s eyes. “Care to hear the story?”

Brown eyes looked to green. “I told you mine.”

Anders knew the basics of what Danarius had done to Fenris, physically at least. Mentally and emotionally, Fenris was just as scarred. “I did whatever I was told,” Fenris stated baldly, “and Danarius enjoyed my willingness to serve him. I was more than a slave, I was his property, body and soul. No memory. No thoughts but what he put in my head.

“A weapon built to destroy other magisters and their chattel, but used only on those lesser than Danarius. Duels are not fought by slaves, and Danarius could not advance by having a slave fight in his stead. He is skilled in the fight for dominance, and will not be easy to destroy when the time comes, when he comes after me.”

There was silence as Fenris drank again, then he said, “He will come after his ‘little wolf’. One such as I would never be allowed to defy him.

“My defiance of Danarius is the only good I can claim to have done. Sebastian -” the _elvhen_ nodded at the man “- tells me that a slave or blood thrall cannot be held for account of what crimes his master sends him to do.”

Anders turned his head, tilting it as though questioning, but nodded in agreement with Sebastian. Fenris swallowed another mouthful of wine. “I did those things joyfully. I did them with a sense of accomplishment in ending those lives to the satisfaction of Danarius. I took pleasure in my destruction of others. It is something that I still take pleasure in, fighting with Hawke and the rest of you.

“And much as a sword does not choose who wields it, nor whom it destroys, I have done this service for Danarius. It does not change the fact that I know what I did was wrong. I have killed, and to no good purpose but on Danarius’s pleasure. I have caused pain, and served him in other ways for only that reason.

“I will always remember those crimes. I committed them. But I will never regret those memories, no matter how painful. I wish to keep my memories, as I have so very few of them.” Fenris finished the bottle and sent it crashing, shattering against the wall. 

Picking up another bottle, and popping the cork before taking a mouthful, he went on, “That was not my greatest crime, however.” 

The tale of what led up to Seheron was difficult enough to listen to. There was silence for most of the story, though Anders laughed appreciatively at Fenris’s description of Danarius’s face when he had been told to leave his prized slave behind, while the water separated them. No room on the ship for a slave. Even for such a prized piece of property as Fenris with his lyrium brands.

Fenris’s escape from the Qunari, his rescue by the Fog Warriors, held Anders totally absorbed. Sebastian watched the byplay between the two men and wondered at the vagaries of life bringing two such together. Or the three of them. Well, he thought, taking a sip of wine, they were all damaged. Hawke, Merrill, Isabela, Varric, Bethany, Aveline. Himself. The task was to rise above that damage and to allow it to heal.

Easier said than done. There was a look of sick fascination on Anders’s face now. Fenris was speaking of his murder of the Fog Warriors, every man, woman, and child at the behest of Danarius.

“I ran. I followed that last order, and then, I ran. And I ended up in Kirkwall, where I met Hawke.” Fenris swallowed the rest of this bottle straight down before going on, “So. Think of this. Who did kill those templars of yours? Which pair of the four of us here are actually murderers, Anders? 

“Who among us is the real monster?”

Anders was silent, still holding the bottle that he had not touched while Fenris told his tale, eyes staring, but not at Fenris or Sebastian. Sebastian did not think he was communing with Justice either.

Sebastian had heard the story before. He was watching for Anders’s reaction. The silence stretched until the mage burst out, “The Maker’s hairy eyebrows! How in the Void did I end up in a pissing match with the elf? Are we going to measure dicks next?” It was said with an incredible amount of sarcasm.


	22. Rivaini Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would Isabela be thinking about?

Fenris began to laugh; the sound was deep and rich, and not often heard. Sebastian smiled to hear it, watching the warrior’s head thrown back against the chair. Anders watched him as well for some moments, then began to snicker, then fully laugh himself. Sebastian chuckled - in relief, he thought - and then drawn in by his companions, it grew into a real laugh as well.

When the guffaws weakened, Fenris sighed out, “Isabela told me the discussion would get to sex eventually.”

Sebastian snorted and started laughing again. “Isabela was _praying_ we would get to sex eventually.”

“No.” Anders was still laughing, and his speech came out breathy. “Isabela prayed that the three of us would be having sex eventually. And has probably already written about it in her friend-fiction!”

That brought about another round of laughter until they wept.

“So -” Anders controlled his gasping, then turned and looked at Sebastian “- are you comfortable talking about sex?”

Sebastian opened his mouth, but no words came out. He closed it again, very much aware that Anders and Fenris were both watching, waiting for his response.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Yes, I am comfortable speaking of sex.” And then, to drive the spike in, he added, “I trust you both not to share anything I tell you.”

Anders put a hand over his heart. “Please! I am not Varric!”

“Nor Isabela,” Fenris rumbled. “Will we play confessor then?”

“Well,” Anders looked slyly at the _elvhen_ , “since my only partner is the Widow Hand and her five daughters, there is not much for me to confess. You, Fenris, on the other hand, have been busy. You have actually made my life easier since you started keeping company with Isabela. I am grateful! No requests for healing of diseases of a venereal nature, and fewer mentions of electricity since then.”

“I do not understand,” Fenris said. “Who is the Widow Hand? You’re bedding six women?”

Anders took a belt from his bottle. “Fucking my hand, Fenris. I masturbate.” He wiggled his fingers before making the appropriate gesture. “But even that’s few and far between.”

Fenris cleared his throat. “Isabela has much to say about her experience with you at the Pearl. She says that you are quite... creative. And flexible. With regard to partners.”

Anders harrumphed. “Isabela sees me as a walking sex toy. ‘Sparklefingers’ she called me last time we played Wicked Grace! As though that is all there is to me.”

There was that cock of the head from Fenris, who raised his eyebrow as well. “It is not all she says about you. But is that remembrance a bad thing?”

Anders treated it as a serious question, which knowing Fenris, in all likelihood it was. “I would like a partner who is interested in bedding me. Anders. Not ‘Sparklefingers’. Not my electricity. Isabela has never been interested in most people as partners. Well, until you, Fenris. She obviously cares for you beyond what color smalls you wear.”

Fenris rubbed his unshod foot against the chair. “Why would you think that Isabela thinks of me as anything other than a useable bed partner?”

“Do you really need to ask?” Anders snorted. “She may not have said it, but she’s been with you exclusively for months now. No pickups at the Hanged Man, no ‘old acquaintances’ showing up in her sphere of influence, no unspeakable rashes. And a considerably smaller amount of leering after the dock workers. She’s mostly looking at your arse when we go adventuring.”

Fenris sat up. “Isabela watches my ass? Surely Isabela watches everyone’s ass.”

“Maker, Fenris.” Anders waved his hands to emphasize. “Even if your arse was not as incredible as it is, Isabela watches you with as big puppy eyes as you cast upon her.”

“You watch my ass as well?” Fenris looked startled.

“I watch everyone’s arse.” Anders leaned defiantly back into his chair. “Can’t do anything about it, but I can look. There is not one bad arse in Hawke’s company. Not one! We are -” he took a long drink “- one bloody fine-looking group.” 

Fenris sank deep in thought at that, but Sebastian sat up now. “That reminds me. I kept forgetting to ask. Anders, what is Isabela’s favorite question?”

Anders and Fenris answered together, “Is Justice there when you have sex?” And Anders went on mimicking Isabela’s voice: “And if you have sex, would Justice make it a threesome?”

Sebastian cracked up.

Anders explained, “Justice does not like sex. Even masturbation. He thinks it is a distraction. My last liaison was -” there was a pause for thought “- back at Vigil’s Keep before Justice and I joined.” He laughed, “Oh, lord, Pounce!”

Waving aside Fenris’s groan, Anders added, “No really! Pounce was...intimately involved!”

Suddenly Fenris asked, “Did Justice get along with Pounce?”

Anders looked at Fenris oddly. “Well, no. Justice thought I had enslaved Pounce.” 

There was a moment of silence, then Sebastian broke it. “What happened with your cat, then?”

“Um, well,” Anders began, “I was pounding a female Warden into the mattress, one of the new recruits from Orlais. Pounce was curious, and decided to climb up to his perch on my shoulder. To see what was going on, you know?

“I wasn’t paying attention to him, and we were under the covers, but when he reached my naked shoulders, the claws became a problem.”

There were sympathetic winces from Sebastian and Fenris. Fenris sounded confused. “What did the woman do?”

Anders laughed. “She got offended and broke it off. No, no no no no! Broke off the liaison,” he clarified in response to the shocked expressions, “She rolled out from under me. Cockblocked by my cat!”

Sebastian started laughing again, and found it difficult to stop. Fenris’s eyebrows climbed into his hairline, which started Anders off, before laughing along. Sebastian could not remember the last time he had laughed like this.

There was joking at the Chantry. It was just not quite so earthy. At least not above the Lay Sisters’ level. Men were expected to be gentlemen, and if the templars spoke of such things it had not been around Sebastian. 

One question was troubling Sebastian now. “Wait, Anders. You told me that you were seeing a woman on the nights out I spent with Fenris?”

“Not for sex,” Anders said firmly.

Sebastian could see a blush climbing Anders’s cheeks. “Not for sex? Then, why are you keeping it a secret? To protect her from your devastating reputation?”

“What do you know about this woman, Sebastian?” Fenris sounded interested.

“I think she’s from Hightown. Anders picks me up here on the way home.” Sebastian really could not come up with anything more than that.

The blush was increasing, although Anders angrily scrubbed at his cheeks, damning the drink. Fenris cocked his head and asked the mage, “If not for sex, then what for?”

“Discussion,” Anders replied loftily. “Meeting with someone does not mean I am having sex with them.”

Fenris leaned his head back and inquired, “And what does Justice think of this meeting and discussing?”

Sebastian got the impression that Anders would like to stick his tongue out at the _elvhen_. Anders answered shortly, “Justice does not approve.”

Fenris took a slug of wine. “Chantry priest? One of the Revered Mothers? Or...”

“Elthina?” Sebastian guessed.

The flush covered Anders’s face now. “I should have just said I was going for confession.”

“Elthina is your confessor?” Sebastian was amazed.

“Well, she hasn’t actually absolved me of anything.” Anders looked down at the bottle in his hand, considering.

Sebastian began to laugh. “She can’t absolve you if you don’t repent, Anders!”

“Funny thing.” Anders took a long drink. “That is exactly what Elthina said. Oh, don’t be so surprised. I told you there were things I needed to discuss with her. Corypheus.” Fenris nodded at that. “The Band of Three and the blood magic in the foundations of Kirkwall. I told Hawke I was going to speak to her about them. And about Alrik’s Tranquil Solution.”

Fenris was laughing at him. “We did not think you would make it through the wall of templars surrounding the Chantry.”

Lifting his chin and looking down his nose, Anders scoffed. “I don’t always have to wear robes, you know. Or feathers. They don’t look twice at a man in Lowtown garb. Well, not beyond making sure he doesn’t steal the Chantry candlesticks.”

Fenris looked oddly approving. “Enough attention to make them think you’re not important and not a mage.”

Anders raised his bottle to the _elvhen_. “Exactly!”

“Anders.” Sebastian was troubled. “What do you mean the blood magic in the foundations of Kirkwall?”

Anders gave a loud gust of a sigh. “I suppose you have not been there when we discovered the bits and pieces. The Tevinter Imperium built this city to funnel blood magic, to access the power of the dead and dying slaves that were used here. This architecture has weakened the Veil, and attracted hordes of demons. Add to that the imprisoned Corypheus, who is no longer a concern as Hawke destroyed him, and you have a recipe for disaster.

“You want to know why there are so many blood mages here? So many abominations? This city was set up to create them.”

Sebastian must have looked as sickly as he felt, for Fenris glared at Anders, and the healer had put down his bottle to reach a hand out to Sebastian. “I am sorry,” Anders blurted, “I was not thinking. This is something to be discussed elsewhere, if at all.”

Shaking his head, Sebastian told him, “No. No, this is important. It explains why there are so many evils here. It explains something Ostea said, that there are an oddly large number of demons in the Fade around Kirkwall.”

Looking up and meeting Anders’s eyes, he asked, “What can we do?”


	23. Uiskeba

“Do?” Anders stared blankly at Sebastian.

“Anders!” Sebastian’s voice broke.

“Sebastian.” Anders swallowed hard. “Why do you think I am still here instead of in Rivain or Antiva or -” he shot a quick glance at Fenris “- other places?”

Fenris’s dark voice broke in: “Justice.”

“Justice,” Anders repeated sadly, “does not like Kirkwall any more than I do. Do you think either of us enjoys watching people being destroyed by this place?”

Fenris gazed steadily at the mage. “Then why have you stayed?”

“Because there is no one else!” Anders was anguished. “Hawke fights the slavers, the blood mages and the demons. The clinic helps those who have no hope. The Mage Underground frees mages and gets them _out_ of here before they are forced into blood magic by Meredith’s abuse or desperation. What else do the people of Kirkwall have?”

Sebastian opened his mouth, but Fenris spoke first: “The Chantry.”

Anders looked to Sebastian. “This is why I needed to speak to Elthina about it. But I don’t know what she can do about a city built on blood magic. If she had a sane Knight-Commander, the templars might work _with_ the Circle to treat the problem. The Circle could research... if mages were partners instead of prisoners...”

Sebastian expected Fenris to add, “Or monsters waiting to happen” but instead Fenris shook his head. “That is not going to happen here. I support the templars, and even I know that they are corrupt here.”

Anders said softly, “If Meredith finds out about this, she’ll crush the mages even harder, preventing any of the mage resources from being used, causing even more death and destruction, giving even more reason to grasp at the straws that are demon promises and blood magic. It is entirely possible that she will invoke the Right of Annulment and execute every mage in the Gallows because of ‘contamination’.”

Looking up to find blank faces, Anders explained, “The Right of Annulment is a legal document allowing the templars to kill every mage in a Circle. They annul the Circle by executing all mages.

“The Hero of Ferelden prevented the Right’s use in Kinloch Hold by fighting through the blood mages and demons infesting the tower during Uldred’s uprising. Mahariel destroyed the pride demon that had taken over Uldred, and rescued the First Enchanter, Irving. 

“Greagoir...” There was a pause. “Knight-Commander Greagoir is a good man. Limited, but he tries to do his duty to the Chantry and to the Circle. He is a believer, Sebastian, but does not desire power, except to do his job, as he sees it. But he would have killed every mage at Kinloch Hold in order to ensure that no demons got out into Ferelden. 

“I was in the holding cells in the dungeon. I would have died. Been executed. Of course, I was trapped in solitary and knew next to nothing about what was going on, but I did not have to live with the torments that they put Cullen through. Knight-Captain Cullen now. Can you see Meredith granting mercy to the mages in her ‘care’?”

Fenris looked away. Sebastian stuttered, “Bethany!”

“Yes,” Anders repeated, “Bethany. She refuses to leave the Gallows, you know. I tried to get her out with the Mage Underground. Bethany likes teaching. Orsino seems to be protecting her, and Meredith is afraid at this point to offend Hawke. So for now Bethany is safe enough.”

“Does Hawke know this?” Fenris asked.

“Yes.” The reply was short and sharp.

There was silence after that. Each man lost in his own thoughts.

“Well, that certainly makes it clear that I cannot return to Starkhaven. Not when there is work to be done here.”

“So, that’s it?” Fenris asked. “You’re not returning to Starkhaven now?”

“There are greater things that need to be done, Fenris.” Sebastian was aware of how pompous he sounded.

“And what about avenging your family? Does that not need to be done?” Fenris continued. “What about the man ruling your city now?”

Sebastian looked down at the glass in his hand. “What has my vengeance accomplished except to spill more blood? Goran may be foolish, but he is not harming the city, and is no longer under control of the Harrimans. Flora has been keeping me informed.

“No, I must put my faith in the Maker. He will set my path before me. It is possible that this is what he has already done.”

Fenris’s deep voice rumbled, “I can’t decide if it is certainty you have, or blindness.”

Sebastian chuckled, “At least you can’t decide.”

All three drank for the moment, then Sebastian asked, “Who is Corypheus?”

Anders and Fenris exchanged a look that did not go unnoticed. “Was. A magister of ancient Tevinter. Twisted and powerful,” Fenris said. “Hawke destroyed him in the Vimmark Mountains.”

“You were there,” Sebastian asked more than stated.

“Yes,” both the mage and the warrior replied together, Anders looking at his wine bottle, Fenris staring into the air.

“An ancient magister. Like those they say were responsible for the darkspawn?” Sebastian was curious.

“Yes,” said Fenris. “I believe it.”

“Go ahead, Fenris, tell him.” Anders swirled the bottle, listening to the liquid slosh. “We met one of the magisters who destroyed the Golden City. The stories are all true.”

Sebastian did not think they were joking. “The Chant claims that pride was their greatest sin. And now they have infected the world.”

Anders mumbled something that sounded like, “Taint taint taint taint taint.”

Fenris’s eyes shifted down to Sebastian. “Most magisters would consider this a challenge. Invent a sin that is greater yet.”

Anders lost interest in the sound of his wine. “He was held in a prison by blood magic. We think he may have had something to do with the weakness of the Veil in Kirkwall as well.”

“Which brings me back to my original question.” Sebastian nodded. “What can we do?”

Anders gave him a lopsided grin. “Get the mages out of Kirkwall.”

Fenris snorted, “It is not that simple.”

“It would be a start.” Anders sounded tired.

“No,” Fenris returned, “What we have already done is a start. We hunt those who have turned to blood magic. We support those who would hold Knight-Commander Meredith back, who keep her sane. And most importantly, we destroy those demons that use Kirkwall as a base to spread their evil.”

“It will never be enough,” Anders grimaced.

“No,” Fenris said softly, “but it is a start.”

Looking at the pair of them, Sebastian realized that Justice was wrong. There could, indeed, be peace.


	24. In Vino Veritas

Anders dreamt. Soft lips on his, a loving murmur in his ear, gentle hands moving over his body, touching, stroking, another body under his hands, then pleasure.

He woke with a start to damp smalls and a feeling, at first, of leftover happiness. At second there was a moment of regret and loss. Anders wondered about the woman. Who was it that he was remembering? Who had slid into his dream? Anders had learned long ago that dreams were the body’s - well, the mind’s anyway - way of going through the information picked up during the day. What did that say about him? What in their discussion the night before had brought this on?

Soon after Anders had been delivered to Kinloch Hold, Wynne had taken all the male apprentices aside, together in a group, to explain about what she called “nocturnal emissions”, but what the templar assigned to them said were “wet dreams”. 

This was normal, Wynne had explained, and everyone had them. The children learned about health and hygiene and what the Chantry termed “sex” and how to prevent pregnancy in daily lessons. 

Anders could not remember the templar’s name, a big gruff fellow with a nose that had been badly set many years before and iron-grey hair in short curls that were tight to the head. The templar told them that men had other things to wake up to from time to time as well - “morning wood” was how he termed it - and not to worry about it. Anders had looked at the Tranquil in the front of the classroom preparing for the Introduction to Potions class and asked if Jens had them too?

The templar looked uneasy and said as the Tranquil shouldn’t since they did not dream. Being cut off from the Fade as they were.

Anders then asked if women dreamed wet dreams, since obviously they wouldn’t have “emissions” with mostly internal genitalia. And how would they have “morning wood”? This was after anatomy class. The templar had blushed scarlet and told him to ask Wynne. Anders had done so, not cockily or rudely, but because he wanted to know. In response Wynne had explained female biology in dry and frightful detail. She told him later that even then she knew he was going to be a handful.

Sad, really, the dream over after such a pleasant feeling of being loved and desired. Never something Anders had much of, even with Karl in the tower. Best not to give the templars a way to control.

The room was dark and the fire low. Having consumed a good deal of wine the night before, Sebastian and Anders had been loathe to travel through even Hightown at night. Fenris had offered to share his bed, which he made up on the floor in front of the fireplace in cold weather. There was plenty of room. 

Anders was comfortably warm and realized that someone was spooned against him, a hand on Anders’s thigh, and a…hm. It was Fenris, and what was pressed against Anders’s arse made the Healer think that Isabela was a lucky woman.

The sound of breathing behind him was in two tones, so Sebastian must be in the room. Anders eased his shirt away from the damp smalls and tried to shift himself away from the violent, unfriendly elven man pushing his erection against Anders’s shirttail-covered arse. “Sebastian,” Anders hissed, “are you awake?”

“Aye.” There was laughter, blast it, in that voice.

“Would you give me some assistance here? I don’t want the broody, angry _elvhen_ to put his hand through me and rip out my heart.” That explained the issue in a nutshell as far as Anders was concerned.

Sebastian could not help chuckling as he got up from his meditation. He’d been listening to Anders talking in his sleep, sighing and moaning in a distinctive way, and had seen how Fenris had curved around the mage, his hand sliding up to rest on the healer’s thigh. He gave Fenris a shake. “Fenris, ready to get u...” Sebastian’s question stopped in a snort, he couldn’t help it.

“Time to awaken.” That was better, although it was said with a tight jaw to keep Sebastian from bursting out laughing as he added, “And to let go of Anders, poor man. He’s frightened to death ye’ll kill him in yer sleep.”

There was a yawn from Fenris, who lifted his head to look around the room, the hand on Anders’s thigh slipping up to around the man’s waist with familiarity. “Morning already?” 

“For some time,” Sebastian told him. “I’ve been at my meditations for an hour now.”

Anders pulled at Fenris’s hand. “Let go, Fenris.” 

Unfortunately, the movement only served to push Anders’s arse against Fenris’s body. Anders froze. “Er, Fenris, just let go of me.”

The _elvhen_ , his white hair even messier than usual, obliged, sitting up and running fingers through the pale mop. Giving Anders, who was now sitting up with a very obvious space between them, a narrow-eyed look, Fenris asked, “Did you think I was going to take advantage of you?”

Sebastian took pity. “I think, rather, that Anders was worried you would think the evil mage was trying to take advantage of you instead.”

“I just don’t want any heart-crushing misunderstandings.” Anders tried for a light tone as he pulled his hair back and tied it, looking anywhere but at the elf. “Since I know you would not be interested in early morning sex with me. And I am not Isabela.” He thought to himself that more was the pity, for it had, after all, been a very long time.

Fenris met Sebastian’s eyes, and the corner of the _elvhen’s_ mouth twitched up as he closed his eye in a slow wink. “Perhaps you are mistaken?”

Anders pulled his shirt tent-like over his knees to hide the wet smalls, though there was nothing he could do about the distinctive smell. “About not being Isabela? I am pretty sure that is obvious. She has an abundance that I lack. A significant one.” He gestured largely at bosom height.

“About my interest in having early morning sex with you.” Fenris leant back, his arms behind his head, looking up at the ceiling.

The erection was still there, creating a substantial tent in the blanket. Sebastian put his head in his hands with a groan, because laughter just seemed inappropriate. Anders was staring at Fenris with his mouth open. It made him look very young as well as startled. “Pull the other one, then,” the healer said weakly.

“Do you not find me attractive?” Fenris sounded angry.

“Yes, of course! But, no! No, I wouldn’t be.” Anders floundered before he caught the sidelong look Fenris gave Sebastian. “Oh, you bastard!”

Fenris chuckled in his deep velvet voice; Sebastian let go of his muffled laughter and began to laugh out loud. Anders’s sigh was loud and exasperated, although there was a rueful smile that went with it.

Sitting up and collecting the bedclothes, Fenris began to fold them with exceeding care. Clearing his throat, he said, “It is not inconceivable, mage, that I might be interested in the future. If you were willing. As I said last night, Isabela’s stories are... intriguing to say the least. You are an attractive man. And if Isabela has taught me that Hadriana was a poor mark to judge sex with a woman by, perhaps I should think about removing Danarius’s mark as well.”

Sebastian was watching the pair of them; Anders’s thoughtful look as Fenris gathered up the blankets, Fenris concentrating overly hard on the task at hand. Anders slowly crawled over to Fenris, across the stone flags of the now bare floor and put two fingers on the _elvhen’s_ chin, right where the brands ducked underneath. Fenris did not flinch from the touch, a good sign that Sebastian attributed to Isabela’s influence. Lifting the chin so that Fenris was looking at him, green eyes peering straight into amber brown, Anders leaned forward and spoke quietly, intimately: “Fenris, if you are truly interested, if you wish to learn what it would be like when consenting, then I...would be willing.” And Anders’s lips pressed against Fenris’s, a hint of tongue tracing along Fenris’s bottom lip.

Anders pulled away, and his tone changed. “Even if it does mean being a blasted sex toy for Isabela!”

Now it was Fenris who was open-mouthed, staring at Anders. Sebastian stood. “Is it not time for us to return to the clinic, Anders?”

“Escape! What a good idea, Sebastian!” Anders scrabbled the smalls off and grabbed his trousers to pull up under cover of the shirt.

The smalls went into his pocket while they gathered their possessions and Fenris put his room back in order. As they went out the door -

“Mage,” growled Fenris, and at Anders’s raised eyebrow grinned. “I am not to be involved in any shenanigans with the Widow Hand or any of her daughters. Do you understand?”

Their laughter was a good way to begin the day. It was worth the argument Anders had with Justice on the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is in love with Isabela. Just wanted to point that out in case it was not clear.


	25. Anders

Living with Anders was different from anything Sebastian had experienced. It was not so much the actual physical quarters, wretched though they were, as it was closely sharing the space with Anders the person.

As a child, Sebastian’s earliest memories were of a cold stone room, high ceiling plastered white, grey stone walls hung with tapestries of the hunt, and a small connected chamber housing the nurse at first, and later a valet. His parents had never entered his room, not even when he had fallen ill of a fever. When they desired his presence, Sebastian would receive a summons. The other two princes, his elder brothers, had their own rooms, to which he was not invited. Sebastian had not stood on ceremony, nor waited for invitation, but had thoroughly explored every room he was able to find his way into. What he could not access by simply opening a door, he learned from low friends in the taverns of Starkhaven how to enter.

The Starkhaven treasure vault had caused some problems, but in the end Sebastian had found his way in. He had not taken anything, not even his grandfather’s bow, but he had enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment that came from gaining entrance.

On their way back to Darktown from Fenris’s manor house, Anders told Sebastian about his childhood on the farm. Children in the loft, squashed together on a straw tick mattress, warm in winter from the body heat, insufferable in summer. Of course, in summer it was possible to sleep outside under the stars. Anders’s parents had slept on the bed in the main room. To Sebastian it sounded crowded, but friendly. There was an oddness sleeping so close to Fenris and Anders. Side by side cots was one thing, even with the Grey Warden nightmares. Sharing blankets and body warmth was another. For Anders it had been comfortable.

“I missed it,” Anders admitted, “in the Circle.”

The Circle, Anders told Sebastian, had dormitories for the apprentices, with bunks. Girls and boys were separated, but a young child was apt to be assigned to whatever space was empty, regardless of the age of neighbors.

Sebastian told of the Chantry dormitories, both the double-bunked rooms that housed four initiates each in the beginning, and later the tiny cell that had become his own, an incredibly finite room large enough for a bed, a kneeler, and a small desk. The storage for his clothing, and everything else really, was either hanging from the back of the door, or in chests under the narrow bed, sturdier than one of Anders’s cots, but much like those as to size.

“After the Harrowing, of course, we had our own rooms. Mine ended up being in the dungeons,” Anders joked.

This gave Sebastian the opportunity to ask about the Harrowing. Anders had mentioned it frequently, but Sebastian wanted to know in detail. Anders unemotionally told the former prince that demons were introduced into the mage to see if that person would succumb, would become an abomination. If the templars thought it was taking too long, they would kill the mage as well.

Sebastian quelled his knee-jerk response that this practice was for the safety of all. Instead he asked, “Anders, it is one thing to decry a practice. How would you ensure that mages do not become abominations? What would you do instead?”

Anders stopped and looked long at the Chantry brother before speaking. “I would allow families to be together, to keep children from being terrified of a natural gift. I would allow marriage between mages. Basic rights that are allowed to all but slaves everywhere on Thedas. I would have children educated in ways to fight against demon possession. Demon possession that we now know is a peril for non-mages as well as apostates and Circle enchanters.

“And I would have mages policing their own ranks, instead of templars who believe that their charges are evil, or barrels of oil ready to burst into flame.”

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. “And how would you prevent those mages from becoming corrupt as the templars have? By your own statement, there are templars who seek to do their best for their charges. How would you ensure that what starts as a positive practice does not decay? Or worse, cause some to seek to rule others by right of the strength of their magic?”

Anders angrily opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Uldred,” he said, “is the argument to counter anything that I might have said. Danarius and his ilk. Wynne, my healing mentor, and Irving, who fought with Greagoir for my life, did not like Senior Enchanter Uldred. He was charming enough to have made others follow him into taking over Kinloch Hold for Teyrn Loghain.”

“This is the man who tortured Knight-Captain Cullen?” Sebastian asked.

Nodding, Anders sighed. “Cullen is a man who has come through the Void, and yet still strives to do his duty. He is wrong, of course, but still...

“He had the greatest crush on the Amell girl, Hawke’s cousin, who was at Kinloch Hold. Sadly, she was killed trying to help a friend escape the hold. Not me, you understand, but a friend who turned out to truly be a blood mage. Jowan destroyed his phylactery and got away.

“Hawke tells me that Cullen blushed when speaking of the Blooming Rose, and trying to interrogate the esteemed inhabitants. It sounds much like the Cullen I knew at Lake Calenhad.

“If not for Meredith, I would have hope for Cullen, though he was a raving, frothing lunatic after Uldred was destroyed, demanding that all the mages be annulled to prevent even a chance of blood magic from escaping. He was...damaged.

“It took... time, I guess, before he was ready to return to his duties. And dedication to what he holds to be true.”

Sebastian looked away before asking, “Time. And dedication. There are the Cullens of this world, and then there are the others. Anders...would you tell me about the templars who raped you?”

They had stopped on a stairwell leading down through Lowtown. The area was empty, quiet. The sigh in response was painful, as Anders ran his fingers through his long blond hair, then retied the leather thong. “It was on one of my escapes.”

“Which one?” Sebastian asked before he could stop himself.

“Fifth. I was free for three months. Worked part-time in the Pearl at Denerim.” Anders was short.

“When you say ‘worked’, you mean...?” Sebastian was still not looking.

“Healer, Sebastian. Not as one of the ‘workers’. That was when I met Isabela for the first time.” Anders could smile at that memory. “She was crazy for one of the workers who had griffon tattoos. They called her the ‘Lay Warden’.”

That got a look from Sebastian and the cock of an eyebrow he used in place of a smile at something raunchy or inappropriate that he still found humorous. Catching those turquoise-blue eyes with his brown ones, Anders said, “When they caught me, the templars said that they were going to make sure everyone knew I belonged to the tower at Kinloch. They told me that I was going to know that I belonged to any templar at Kinloch or outside of the Circle. One of them had gotten hold of a Kinloch Circle branding iron, used for the livestock there.

“I was tied into a bundle; not that I could have done magic, I was groggy from all the smites. There were five of them, all men. They made sure that I had a good view of the iron in the coals. The comments while it was heating were torturous as well.

“Maker! It hurt! I have had sympathy for those whose injuries require searing, Sebastian, because I know what it feels like. In any case, after that they took their turns with me. Called me livestock, and untied just enough of the ropes to get at me.

“At first I tried to fight them. They dropped me on the ground and took turns kicking me. Taking pulls from a skin of wine while they waited their turns. When I stopped struggling they went back to using me for their own pleasure. No. It was not. I don’t see, Sebastian, how they got any pleasure out of it, which is when I realized that rape is for power. It’s not about sex. It’s not about pleasure at all. It’s to hurt another human being and show that the victim is the lesser.”

Anders allowed Sebastian to look away, but went on, “It was the only time the templars allowed me to heal myself before they brought me back. I was told to heal the scarring from the brand and any internal injuries I might have sustained from being kicked in the ribs. 

“And most important, to remove any evidence they’d left of their crime. Beating me was not a crime. Rape was. They knew that Greagoir would not approve. They would have been sent to Aeonar.

“Wynne found out about the brand, but not until they were long gone, on their way back to their Chapters. She went to Irving immediately. Not that it mattered by then.

“I didn’t get flogged for that escape, as Greagoir said that the obvious beating I’d received was punishment enough this time. And would I _please_ stop trying to escape, or they would have to try something drastic.”

As Sebastian listened, Anders voice took on a clinical detachment, and that more than anything wrenched at him. Sebastian had not noticed the tears drifting down his face. Turning his head further away to keep Anders from seeing, Sebastian heard Anders describe with a little more animation, “The worst of it was the smell. I was face down in a patch of tarragon. It’s a woody herb. The Orlesians favor it in cooking. Thank the Maker it has no healing usage, for I cannot bear the scent any longer.

“There I was with my branded and burning arse in the air, hands tied tight behind my literally bloody back, and my face pressed into that patch of stink, being buggered by those blighted templars.”

The tears had stopped, but Sebastian was uncertain what to say in response. “Sebastian?” Anders smiled ruefully. “Are you alright?”

Trying to sniff surreptitiously to stop the prickling feeling in his nose, the man gave Anders his face, not hiding the track marks that the tears had left. Clearing his throat he managed, “I have no taste for Orlesian food myself. Hawke told me of a party he attended where the ham tasted of despair. He was unable to describe what despair tasted like.”

Anders’s eyes searched Sebastian’s face. “I can think of some who might have told him.”

“Many, here in Kirkwall, but especially in Darktown.” Sebastian nodded, refusing to include himself. “Though I would prefer food that is a little less sad.”

Anders nodded as well, then his face brightened, “We should pay a visit to Orana on our way to the Hanged Man tonight! If ever food tasted of Hope, it would be her cooking!”

This was the night the clinic closed early, and Orana was thrilled to see them. The supper with Bodahn and Sandal and the pretty elf maid was enjoyable, if not as quiet as it might have been without Anders. Sebastian contributed more on this visit than previously, if only because he was finally settling in to being part of this tiny community.


	26. Hanged Man and Hungover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you thought of what it would be like to actually LIVE with Anders?

It was on their way down the steps to Lowtown, heading for the Hanged Man and a night of cards that Anders asked, “Were you surprised when I kissed Fenris this morning? And told him I would be willing?”

“In a way,” Sebastian said. “I was more surprised at Fenris, I suppose. He does not offer anything lightly, much less something like sex.

“I was not at all surprised,” he went on, “when Justice came out on our way back to the clinic.”

“After all these years,” Anders commented, “Justice does not understand the importance of human contact. Even with Kristoff’s memories, he has no construct for it.”

“Is that why you kissed Fenris?” Sebastian asked. “A need for human contact?”

“As if I do not get enough contact with more than enough people through the clinic,” joked Anders.

“Isn’t it a bit different, though?” Sebastian said thoughtfully. “It’s not as though you are allowing yourself to get close to any of your patients?”

“Well, yes,” Anders agreed, “except for you and the merry band of Hawke’s company. But we all need that closeness. Some more than most. Fenris needs it, or he would not have offered. I need it, or I would not have accepted, no matter what Justice thinks.”

“What does Isabela need?” wondered Sebastian.

“Maker knows, but I think she would say Electricity!” laughed Anders.

Isabela’s choice for that evening became clear quickly. They were sitting at Varric’s big table to play “Never Have I Ever”, a drinking game Sebastian had been fond of when he was a wild boy running about the taverns of Starkhaven. Isabela had proposed the game, and Anders accused her of garnering stories for her friend-fiction. Varric’s suite - which he described as “palatial”, but Sebastian, having grown up in a palace, did not see as such - was quieter than the Hanged Man’s main room. The chance of stray bits of embarrassing information spreading was less likely there than from the main room.

Sebastian, Varric, Anders, and Isabela had played this game, but Isabela was explaining the rules to the rest: “For example, I would say, ‘never have I ever had a child. Since none of us here have had a child...” And she petered off as the entire table watched Fenris drink his glass to the bottom.

Fenris looked Isabela in the eye, ignoring the rest of them. “Danarius put me to stud. I have sired a number of children.”

Sebastian had rarely seen Isabela without words. Fenris had placed the empty glass defiantly on the table before him, but his posture was still, waiting.

Merrill was asking, “How many childr- oh! Anders! Your glass is spilling on me!”

How could this woman have been a Keeper’s First when she had so little understanding or care for people’s feelings? Then Sebastian saw her give Anders a look, lips pressed together. So the question had been deliberate. Merrill was not given the chance to finish asking, for Hawke came to her rescue, and the question was lost in the ensuing romantic byplay between the two.

“Well,” Isabela said brightly, “moving on. Does everyone understand the game?”

Sebastian felt more than comfortable with these men and women. He had grown into the group. The game gave him more insight into their backgrounds, although much that was brought up in the game that had been hinted of in conversations before. 

Fenris did not tell Sebastian if he and Isabela ever discussed Fenris’s children after. Walking away from the Hanged Man that night, Anders and Merrill had argued quietly in front while Sebastian and Hawke had followed, lost in their own thoughts. Before the group had left the tavern, Fenris had told the prince, “Ask, Sebastian. I am not a man of words, but I will answer your questions if I am able.”

The problem was that Sebastian felt uncomfortable asking some questions and did not know what other questions to ask. Fenris asked little. Sebastian understood that this was because Fenris was content to be there as his friend. It was not that Fenris was not curious. He had a rigid sense of privacy however, and did not like to intrude.

There had been shifting and dancing around each other in the beginning, especially with regard to the Maker’s place in Fenris’s life. Fenris also learned by listening instead of asking. Where Anders caused people to drop information in response to chatter, Fenris gathered tidbits in the manner of a servant, silently, when others had forgotten his presence. This was the protective instinct of a slave.

Fenris’s concern when Sebastian moved down to Darktown had been evident in his invitation for Sebastian to stay with him. The _elvhen_ valued privacy, but had said, “You may come to me at any time. My home is yours.”

Sebastian had meant his offer of employment to Fenris. Then he had thought of returning to Starkhaven, and he could have helped his friend. Now, though, his own future was in disarray. And of course, nothing could be decided for Fenris until Danarius was dead. It was that simple. Or was it simple? Hadriana had died at Fenris’s hand, and her death had not released Fenris from the hatred Fenris held for her. 

Isabela had been a wonder, though had she done it purposely? Had the pirate seduced Fenris, and then gotten caught up in caring for him? At times Sebastian wondered if thinking so much about his companions was a sign of obsession. Anders pointed out that it was a sign of being human - er, not to be racist, but a PERSON - and a part of their little odd community. 

A sense of community. Elthina had given it to him in the Chantry. He had gotten along well with the women and men who worked there, but had not felt as close to them as he did to Hawke’s motley group. With the exception of Elthina, of course. Who had a sense of humor. Was that it? Soon Sebastian would need to think about returning to the Chantry.

The thought that Sebastian kept repeating now, almost like a prayer, was would he ever be able to open himself to the Chantry workers, those in service to Andraste and the Maker, as he had to Elthina, Fenris, Anders, and Hawke? 

...

It was morning. Sebastian awoke with a hangover. It was nothing like his first. There had been far too many nights of drunken excess before being shipped to the Kirkwall Chantry. And one or two nights at the beginning of his time there as well, before he found his vocation.

The room was dark, close, the smell of Darktown always present, but this morning it seemed overwhelming. Sebastian did not have a particularly strong sense of smell. Something, however, was off this morning. The thudding in his head, the feeling of thick slime on his tongue, without even mentioning the taste, and the increased sensitivity of his skin - they were all distorted. Merciful Maker, Sebastian gave thanks for the darkness.

Anders must have had one of his darkspawn dreams last night, for the rough blanket covering the healer was twisted around him tightly, one long gangly leg free and hanging over the cot’s edge. “Bed spins,” Anders’s voice echoed inside Sebastian’s skull.

Well, that explained the leg. Put a foot on the ground and the whirling stops. Was Anders reading his mind? “Sebastian, you are asking me, not thinking to yourself. Are you awake?” There was an edge to Anders’s normally grouchy morning voice.

Sebastian spoke his mind: “No, I am hungover. And possibly dead.”

It was not the worst hangover he’d ever had, but wine definitely had its negative side effects. “How does Fenris do this to himself?”

A hand flapped over, all ungainly, and clasped Sebastian’s wrist. Cool healing magic that he could actually taste as bright and fresh flooded through him. It took the edge off, though it did not completely remove the hangover. Sitting up with a groan, Sebastian looked over at Anders as the mage pulled his pillow over his head and curled up away on the cot, nightshirt rucked up, his pale naked rump peering out of the kale-green horse blanket.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Anders?” Sebastian’s traditional cure for his own hangovers had been a good deal of water and to sleep them away.

“Water.” Anders’s reply was muffled by the embroidered pillow.

Standing, Sebastian stretched widely and took a deep breath. Over the slight stench of the Underdark was sour sweat and the pungent smell of two adult men sharing the tight space. Even with Anders’s obsessive cleanliness, and Sebastian’s habitual fussiness of his person, there was still a natural scent for each. When the inhabitants of Darktown started to parade into the clinic, this would vanish behind the smell of people to whom water was a scarce commodity. Soap was expensive and even less likely to be used.

“Water,” Anders wheezed in a cracked, old man way, the pillow lifted for his complaint.

Sebastian filled a battered and scraped metal carafe from the pipe, then a large mug as well, and took them back to the malingering healer. Pulling the drape aside let dim light filled with dust fall into the cubicle. 

Anders grunted, then stretched up, toppling pillow and books from his bedding.

“Why sleep with books, Anders?” Sebastian asked as the mage gratefully pulled the container from Sebastian’s fingers and began to pour the liquid down his throat. “I have never understood that.”

He drank from his mug a bit less dramatically. “You must have been a grand champion for chugging ale, man!”

“More!” Anders thrust the vessel back at Sebastian. “Please?”

Sebastian realized that he was staring when Anders looked at him with the crabbiest face the Brother had seen on the man. “What?” Anders’s voice was cross.

“Why are you not healing yourself?” Sebastian tried to keep exasperation controlled.

Anders sighed. “Justice feels, well... strongly...” A pause. “That I should not be ingesting poison deliberately, and then have healing for it. It does not provide -” another pause “- justice.”

Now it was Sebastian’s turn to sigh. He went out into the clinic and found Anders’s sealed crock of ground tree bark. Anders had explained that it was the most inner layer, not the rough or even smooth outside of the tree. Measuring out a portion, he stirred it into the newly filled flagon of water, then measured more into his own mug. Refilling his with water and swirling it to mix the powder into solution, Sebastian began to drink it as he handed the carafe to Anders, who had just come out from washing his hands after using the chamber pot.

Anders tossed this one down as well, then noticed the bitter aftertaste. “Willow bark?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow.

Sebastian nodded. “No raw egg and Antivan peppers and decayed fish paste available.”

Anders groaned.

“An ‘Antivan Oyster’. The other ‘cure’ I know is the hair of the dog that bit you,” Sebastian admitted. “It was very popular when I was a lad.”

Anders groaned again. “As if swallowing half of Fenris’s wine cellar and topping that off with Isabela’s little drinking game at the Hanged Man was not enough. I am not insane enough to drink _more_.”

Sebastian laughed, retrieving the metal canister and refilling it for Anders. The pipe to Hightown was an incredible blessing.

When Anders took the water he looked at Sebastian, who held his own refilled mug up for a toast. “To memorable nights!”

Anders smiled and knocked his container against the mug. “That’s one way to look at it,” Anders agreed.

For Sebastian, living with this confusing man was alternatively an irritation and an inspiration. 

The healer had refused to submit to Clerical or Circle authority, had clung tenaciously to the thought of escape and freedom, gone to enormous lengths for them. Then he had foolishly allowed Justice to invade his body to take control of large and small aspects of his life in a moment of fear. It was fear that had caused this. Fear of death by hanging at the hands of templars for Anders and granted fear for a friend’s, Justice’s, survival as the body of Kristoff rotted around the spirit.

The Grey Warden was terrified of the Deep Roads, but had accompanied Hawke there to assist the man, not once but twice according to his own stories. Tainted, and prone to whining about how his life had turned out, Anders still returned to Kirkwall and Hawke’s company to serve as healer to the desperate and the corrupt of Kirkwall, as well as his friends. So, Sebastian had seen the bravery of the man.

A good portion of what Sebastian had originally thought was arrogance the Brother could now see was a bluff. Anders was desperately trying to deal with multiple untenable situations. “If you are hesitant, they will take advantage of you,” Anders had muttered when Sebastian had called him on something several weeks back. “If you present yourself as knowledgeable, people will believe you.”

Smugness the mage had in abundance. Some of it was earned. It was irritating, to be sure, but Anders threw himself into healing wholeheartedly. Sebastian did not think it was just Justice, if it was even Justice who drove Anders to do this. Justice drove Anders to move beyond his body’s resources, that was true. Even with the stamina that Anders got from the Grey Warden taint poisoning his body, the man went further than was good sense. Justice was more likely to keep Anders up all night working on the manifesto that no one was willing to read, or to cut himself off completely from friendships or his body’s needs. For a man who believed that Man must return to the Fade each night to commune with his Maker, Anders was chronically short of sleep.

That manifesto. It was not that Anders could not write well. The Circle-trained mage wrote with a scholarly bent that laid out theses and proofs using anecdotal evidence that Anders had gathered from other mages, as well as his own experience, and tied to chapter and verse of the Chant. If anything, it was dry and logical on those points which Anders wrote, and wildly ranting where Justice got the upper hand. Uneven, to say the least. Anders’s sense of humor was not apparent in his writing, at least so far as the Manifesto was concerned. Also, dry and logical did not make for convincing reading to the general populace.

Sebastian and Anders had discussed the writing, with Sebastian making critical suggestions in spite of himself. This worked so long as Justice was not paying attention, or Sebastian did not encourage Anders to tone down the rhetoric or remove some of the more ranting verbiage.

Aside from Justice, the pair had worked out their most grating person twitches. Sebastian strove to prevent his eyes from rolling as he was holding back a biting comment when Anders pushed himself or Sebastian to work through a meal even when the clinic was quiet, or reorganize an already organized cabinet. Justice felt that resting was a waste of time, as was dining, since eating should be quick and for nutrition’s sake alone. Sebastian’s biting comments were also now tempered with understanding.

Anders’s comments about Chantry traditions had also been toned down, and Sebastian was more than willing to explain where those had come from, why rules were in place, and how they had come to be historically. They both worked to gain a greater understanding of each other’s world. They were, after all, stuck with each other for the time being.

Anders, once it was called to his attention that he fiddled with his hair whenever an attractive man or woman entered his personal space, strained to keep his hands from fidgeting upward to mess with the leather tie. This was something, apparently, that not even Justice could completely stop Anders from doing, and was one of his many tells, probably a Circle indicator of sexual interest. Anders fussed that it was “an unhygienic practice” in any case.

Anders refused to eat many Orlesian dishes, and now Sebastian knew why. Sebastian strove not to turn up his nose at the lower class “victuals”, as the Darktown residents called their baskets of offerings.

Snoring - well, Anders did not do it often. Sebastian had no idea if he did. Anders's Grey Warden nightmares were horrific. Sebastian's dreams of the blood mage were also awful.

No, it was not easy. It was, however, a learning experience for them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am looking for critiques/criticisms. If you find typos and grammatical errors, I want to know about them. Thank you.
> 
> Also canon and continuity errors.


	27. Isabela

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chat with Isabela.

Isabela’s trim, tanned legs swung back and forth as she sat on Sebastian’s freshly scrubbed table, watching Fenris read out loud to Anders on the other side of the closed clinic. Sebastian sat by her on a much mended stool, unable to concentrate on the text before him. He let out a sigh, then finally asked, “Isabela?”

She responded in a teasing lilt, “Yes, Sebastian?”

“Fenris’s lesson will go on for some time yet. Was there something I could help you with?” Patience, he counseled himself.

“Mmmmmmm, I’ll just bet there is.” Her reply was flirtatious, but distant, as though her thoughts were elsewhere.

Sebastian examined her profile: well-known to him, but what did he really know of the person behind it? Other than that she liked to embarrass him and was constantly making suggestive comments? “Do you want to ask me something, Sebastian?” The corner of her mouth turned up. “No need to stand on ceremony.” She stuck those shapely legs out in front of herself, examined the booted feet.

Sebastian had so many questions, and many of the answers were most likely none of his business. He took refuge in mumbling, “Why did Anders....” but trailed off.

“Why me?” Her tone was flippant. “Fenris is obvious, isn’t he? Your friend. And Maker knows that old demon Danarius raped him, body and soul. If no one else would understand, Fenris would.

“Anders too, for all that he won’t admit it. You just need to look at his back to know. Oh, such a look, sweet thing! Of course I’ve seen every one of you naked at one time or another. No need to use my imagination! 

“So! Why Isabela? By the Void, Sebastian, I have no idea. Merrill is a hundred times more nurturing and trained in a Dalish Keeper’s healing crafts.”

Sebastian sighed. “Isabela, Merrill is a blood mage.”

“Ah yes. Well, there is that.” Isabela’s legs started to swing again. “We won’t be having any trouble over that, will we, Sebastian? Because I would hate to have to…argue…with you, sweetness.”

Sebastian was silent. What could he say, when he had never trusted the Dalish woman, and now her blood magic made him nervous whenever she was near? Isabela did not appear to notice the silence, her attention back on Fenris and Anders. “Do you... argue... with Fenris about Merrill?” It came out of his mouth without thought.

There came that quirked-up smile again. “All the time. I have views on freedom, Sebastian, and they stand for everyone. Not just slaves. Not just mages. Not just women.

“Did you know that Rivaini women are sold into their marriages? I was sixteen when my mother sold me to my husband. He was thirty years my elder.”

“You have a husband?” Sebastian did not know why this shocked him so.

“Well, had. He is deceased. And no, before you start writing stories in your head, I did not kill him or have him killed. That was a business rival. And as he had no heirs, not on my body nor his previous wives, I got his ship, the _Siren’s Call_. She was beautiful! She inspired more love than my husband ever did.

“Zevran Arainai, the Crow we met up on Sundermount, had the contract for his assassination. He seduced me first, of course, shy little wife that I was. I had only been bedded by my husband before that. You can close your mouth now, Sebastian.”

Sebastian closed his slack jaw with a snap. Isabela was speaking again: “Fenris would marry me, if I would have it. But I believe I have seen enough of married life.”

Sebastian felt a little queasy asking, “Was your husband abusive?”

“Not according to his rights.” Isabela folded her legs up tailor-fashion. “I was sixteen, and a virgin. He had paid a good bride price for me. He expected me to lie under him whenever he was in the mood, and provide him with heirs. It did not matter how I felt that day, or if I desired sex. If he had to ‘discipline’ me, that was within his rights by the laws of Rivain. He was the most boring man I have ever had sex with.

“Zevran was the first time I ever had a choice.”

They were silent again, as Sebastian thought about what she had said. The church taught that a wife or husband must remain faithful to their wedding vows. Men and women mostly married for reasons other than love, and in his family that had certainly been the case. His own banishment to the Chantry had been as much to prevent unwanted heirs from appearing and muddling the line of succession as from anything else. Business alliances and political advantage were often sealed with marriage, and to marry a man of wealth would be a coup for many women in straightened circumstances. And vice versa, Sebastian knew. And many of those arrangements required the bearing of children. 

They had been married, though. The Chant said that a husband should honor his wife, and the wife should honor the husband. Isabela did not fit into his picture of a shy, virginal bride with an old man for a husband.

 

Sebastian’s response was thought out: “You learned a good deal in a short time then. Since your husband died.”

Isabela laughed and looked at him directly. “You are so sweet! Yes. You could say that. And yes, aside from learning to duel, and to sail, and to captain a ship, I spent most of that short time enjoying everything that I had missed before. Including Anders, as you might remember.”

“Yes,” Sebastian acknowledged. “Fenris spoke of this the other night.”

“I knew you would get to talking about sex!” Isabela crowed. “Three hot men, a large number of bottles of wine, and a night alone together!”

“Anders’s bet was that you had prayed we would be having sex,” Sebastian laughed, “and that the friend-fiction would already be written about it.”

“True. It is!” Isabela’s sly smile made him laugh again.

Their laughter had caught Fenris’s and Anders’s attention briefly. Fenris smiled at them, or Isabela really, though Sebastian felt included. Anders gave them both a cock of the head and a raised eyebrow before starting Fenris over on the page.

“Why does he have to practice reading out loud?” Isabela complained. “Are not reading and writing enough? He has the basics, why does he need to be able to speak it?”

“Would you have him read sounding uneducated, illiterate? There is an art to reading out loud. Fenris speaks well; it’s best that he learn correctly even at the beginning,” Sebastian said thoughtfully. “You write. Isn’t it better that Fenris can read correctly, hear the words as they were meant to sound in his head instead of stilted and difficult?”

Isabela giggled. “The thought of Fenris reading my friend-fiction out loud is hysterical, kitten!”

“Well, what about poetry? Fenris has a good voice,” Sebastian offered.

“Poetry,” Isabela scoffed.

Sebastian smiled and leaned forward, his voice intimate: “The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, and the highwayman came riding —Riding —riding… The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.” The words were familiar, and he knew he spoke them well.

Isabela shivered. “Is that an old song? An old ghost story?”

“No,” Sebastian said, “an old poem. Would you like to hear more? I think you’d enjoy the next verse.”

At Isabela’s knowing smile and nod, he continued, “He'd an Orlesian cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle -” Sebastian had made it suggestive “- his boots were up to the thigh!” Isabela’s eyes were wide, cheeks flushed, and she licked her lips at the description. “And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His crossbow butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

“Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there; But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.”

“Maker, Sebastian.” Isabela had a sudden thought. “You used this to seduce women, didn’t you?”

“Happen, I might have done,” Sebastian admitted. “Long ago.”

Isabela’s eyes lost their focus, her lips just parted, and Sebastian wondered if she were thinking of friend-fiction again, but she managed to ask, “Can you teach that poem to Fenris? Imagine what that poem would sound like in his voice.” She purred.

It was the point Sebastian had been trying to make, but he had not thought to put that lustful expression on the woman’s face. “Sebastian?” Anders called from across the cavernous room.

Looking at them, Sebastian could see Fenris eyeing them both narrowly. Anders had a twinkle discernable even at this distance. “Whatever you are doing to Isabela, Sebastian, is distracting not only Fenris, but me as well. What _is_ it that you are doing to Isabela?”

Sebastian cleared his throat. “Reciting poetry. She would like me to teach the poem to Fenris.”

That expression from Fenris was amusing, startled and confused as it might be. Isabela licked her lips and said huskily, “Fenris, will you be much longer?”

“He promised,” Anders said loftily, “to read to the end of the chapter. He can’t get better if he does not practice.”

They listened to Fenris read another page, not nearly so hesitantly as he had two weeks ago. Fenris was reading from a book on the treatment of goiters. It was not as enticing as Sebastian’s poem. “You,” Isabela said out of the corner of her mouth, “promise me that you will get me a copy of that poem!” It was not so much a request as a command.

“Yes.” Sebastian smiled, then he thought of another question. “You had no children by your husband? I know that you said that you had no children when we played ‘Never Have I Ever’.”

“No.” Isabela stretched. “I do not feel the need to have children of my own.”

There was a pause, then she added, “Fenris’s children, on the other hand...”

“You might want to give Fenris children?” Sebastian was unsure of her meaning; knowing Isabela, it would not be what he would hear from most women in the Chantry asking for prayers for fertility.

Isabela chuckled. “I might want to go and bring them out of Tevinter.”

It took a moment for Sebastian to process that. “How would you know where they were?”

“Sebastian.” Isabela was patient. “They are slaves. There will be records. Tevenes pay taxes on their property, so it will be in the tax rolls. All we need to do is find out who inherited them when Danarius died. Then we go and steal them!”

“They’d be what? Ten years of age, or about?” Sebastian hazarded.

“About that,” Isabela nodded.

“Would you rescue their mothers as well?” The idea seemed fraught with things that could go wrong.

Very wrong.

“If need be.” Isabela was unconcerned about the mothers.

“What would you do with them then?” Sebastian tried to keep his disbelief firmly caged. “How would they make a living? How would you support them? Would you expect to raise them? How would you get them all out of the country?” Once his first question escaped, the others just ran out of his mouth.

The Rivaini waved a brown hand. “Details. We will deal with those as we come to them! They can be cabin boys or girls on my ship! Just imagine, Sebastian, how adorable little Fenrises would be! They deserve to have freedom!”

Sebastian shook his head. “Isabela,” he started, and then a mental picture of Isabela, Fenris, and Merrill on a ship surrounded by small versions of Fenris filled his head. Dissolving into laughter, he put his head down on his hands on the table and laughed until he wept.

“You’ve broken Sebastian!” Anders said in mock surprise.

The lesson done, they were standing in front of Isabela. Looking up at Fenris, Sebastian could only shake his head and laugh weakly, burying his head again.

Isabela lost no time in dragging Fenris away, shouting over her shoulder, “Don’t forget! I want a copy of that poem!”

 

My thanks to Alfred Noyes and The Highwayman. http://www.potw.org/archive/potw85.html

It is so much sexier now than when I first read it in second grade.


	28. Knight Captain Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wheels of bureaucracy grind slowly...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the lateness of this post. Merrill is being difficult, and Knight Captain Cullen showed up and insisted on his chance. At considerable length.

The first sign they received that anything was in the wind was a visit from Stigs bearing a grimy, much-folded piece of parchment. It read, “Confession may be good for your souls, but the Chantry would not be good for your bodies this week.”

“What does she mean?” Anders asked Sebastian in confusion.

“Other than the warning on the face of it?” Sebastian shook his head. “I have no idea, and a strong desire to go up and visit her. I think this is meant for me as much as for you.”

Anders looked quickly about the room. “Hawke. We’ll get Hawke to go and find out what is going on.”

Sebastian stared. “No one would dare harm Elthina!”

Anders returned his stare coolly, “Elthina is a person of great influence. Has it never occurred to you that she would make an excellent target? Not just for your blood mage -” Sebastian had done his best to forget that “- or for someone trying to upset the balance in Kirkwall, but also for someone seeking to increase their power within the Chantry?”

No. The thought had not occurred. Sebastian knew there were wheels within wheels in Chantry politics. He had thought that Elthina was at the level of power where such would not be used against her. Certainly she was well-loved here in Kirkwall. She was the calming influence in the Chantry and outside of it. In the midst of his rethinking, Anders said two words, coldly: “Meredith Stannard.”

“You think that Knight-Commander Meredith would seek to hurt Elthina? She is one of Elthina’s oldest friends! And there are always templars at the Chantry, in any case.” Sebastian heard his incredulous voice, but as he said the words his mind went back to a time when court intrigues had been the background of his life.

Anders laid a comforting hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “Hawke will check on her.”

And Sebastian had to be happy with that.

Until Donnic Hendyr appeared at the clinic doorway in the middle of that morning. Donnic, which meant that Aveline needed them, but hadn’t wanted to send for them directly. Donnic, who played cards with Fenris of an evening, and while associated with Hawke’s company through his wife, was yet not enough one of them to be followed. Sebastian and Anders both looked at the guard standing there, disguised in plain clothing, but still unmistakably Guard, and unpleasant ideas began to grow in their minds.

“Maker, Anders.” Sebastian waved to Donnic in welcome. “Your paranoia is infecting me.”

Anders smiled in welcome to Aveline’s husband. “It is only paranoia if no one is attempting to come after you.”

Donnic clasped hands with both of them. Then he said, “Sebastian, Aveline would like you to come to the Guard office. Knight-Captain Cullen is there, and would speak with you. He said something about a follow-up to the report we submitted for you.”

It seemed simple enough on the face of it. The complication was, in all probability, Anders. Sebastian nodded, then went to get his weapons. Even accompanied by a member of the guard, incognito, one did not venture out into Darktown unarmed.

Anders scrubbed his face with an arm. “Maker, what I would not give for peace. And the ability to walk free in the air. And not to bring the templars down on my friends.”

Sebastian smiled at that. “In this case, it is rather more that we are trying not to bring the templars down on you, my friend.” He hitched his bow over his shoulder, checked to make sure the daggers on his hips were not fouled by the bow and quiver.

Anders was looking at him strangely. The smile that blossomed on his face was genuine, though his tone was hesitant. “Be careful, Sebastian. I can’t afford to lose any of my friends.”

On the walk through Darktown, then up the Lowtown steps to Hightown and the Keep, Sebastian realized that the word “friend” had come to him easily. He would not have thought of Anders as a friend four months ago. They did not agree on many things. They did have some things in common. The time spent in the clinic had brought them into a working relationship. They argued their different stances, but had managed to move beyond those to new territory.

To be friends seemed the next step that Sebastian had walked up without planning or expectation. Friends...who were Sebastian’s friends? He had used the word so casually in the old days. Sebastian could remember his father shouting at him for his choice of friends. Sebastian would have called whores, thieves, wastrels, conmen, and drunken sots friends in those days. Not one of them had tried to stay in touch with him when his family had exported him to Kirkwall. They knew where he was. Some of them could read and write. None of them thought him worth knowing in his hour of need, when he was not able to spend coin in the brothels and taverns with them.

As for friends, Donnic was one, of a minor sort. He liked the man, respected him, and even more wished Aveline the happiness that married life had brought to her.

Hawke was a friend. The big warrior - again, they disagreed on many things - had searched for him. Hawke had rescued him from the blood mage. Merrill notwithstanding, Sebastian knew that Hawke was a close friend, one that Sebastian valued highly.

Fenris as well. His closest friend, and one who had been there for him in a position no one else could have filled. Sebastian knew that Fenris was fond of him, and they respected each other’s beliefs. Fenris had stayed with him here in the clinic, in spite of his dislike of Anders.

Isabela was not close. Sebastian cared about her more for Fenris’s sake than anything else. Varric also was one of those people who was always there, someone that Sebastian enjoyed speaking with, though their discussions tended to avoid topics of controversy. Varric had also named him “Choir Boy”, more to devil Sebastian than as a friend. 

Merrill - well, there was one that Sebastian did not consider a friend. It was hard even to put aside his feelings of distrust and suspicion, even for Hawke’s sake, though he had done as much for Bethany. Bethany, though, was not a blood mage. Bethany had turned herself in to the Circle, had been Harrowed and now served as a teacher. Sebastian found much to respect in Bethany Hawke.

Aveline was the support to them all - righteous, plain and straightforward. Again, Sebastian respected the woman. He was even fond of her. Still and all, Sebastian did not want to get in the way of her duty. He considered Aveline a friend, though he was uncertain whether it went the other way as well.

If speaking to the templars would help her, then of course, Sebastian would do so.

Donnic left Sebastian at the foot of the Hightown steps into the Keep, but Sebastian knew the way. Aveline nodded brusquely when Sebastian peered into the room. “Come in and close the door, Sebastian.”

It was not a conspiracy, exactly. At least not on the part of the templars. They had gone to Elthina and the Chantry looking for Sebastian. The Chantry’s official position was that Sebastian was doing charity work in Darktown, and they were not able to give a specific location or address. Elthina had smilingly recommended that Cullen contact Aveline and ask her for assistance in contacting Sebastian.

Aveline had sent Donnic rather than Hawke to keep from muddying the waters, and also to keep Anders as far away from the templars as possible. Sebastian knew that Aveline was not fond of Anders. But Anders had also healed them all; a spirit healer was a valuable asset, and this spirit healer was Hawke’s, which made him all that much more valuable to Aveline. 

So, the conspiracy was on their side, not the templars’. That was reassuring. And Knight-Captain Cullen had been sent to one of the interrogation rooms and provided with water and some food to while the time until they found Sebastian for him. 

Knight-Captain Cullen was sitting on a wooden bench in the tiny whitewashed room. Sebastian could see him, helmet off and set on the table, his head back and eyes closed. Sebastian would have given much in his rakehell days for hair with those tight waves. A gentle knock on the wooden slab of a door brought open eyes and an open smile.

Sebastian liked the Knight-Captain. They had met in the Kirkwall Chantry; it was hard to avoid Sebastian when he had been an avowed Brother. “Brother Sebastian.” Cullen rose and offered his hand. 

Sebastian had always been astonished how well some men moved in plate armor. Cullen seemed to have little problem, but if Anders was correct, he had been wearing the heavy plate for many years. Familiarity, as used to wearing the distinctive armor of the templar order as Sebastian was to his Chantry robes. Robes that Sebastian was no longer wearing. 

“Knight-Captain Cullen.” Sebastian grasped the sword-calloused hand. “I was told you were looking for me?”

“You have become a hard man to track down, Brother Sebastian. The Chantry had no address, and I was becoming concerned!” Cullen indicated that they should sit.

Perched on a three-legged stool, with the Knight-Captain on his bench Sebastian was noncommittal. “In my current ministry, the sight of armed men is problematic. How may I help you?”

It was routine. Cullen had the report of the assault on Sebastian and wanted to go over his statement. Even after four months Sebastian found himself breathing faster, sweating as he went over the events with the templar. It was not the stomach-churning experience of his original statement with Anders, but it was an ordeal. Cullen stopped to give him time to regain control, watching and listening quietly. His questions were designed, Sebastian realized, to deal with survivors of this specific type of attack.

Anders had been thorough. That initial questioning, though, had been more targeted toward the physical crime of rape, not blood magic. There was a slight difference between Anders and Cullen in their questions. They were both, Sebastian thought, gentle and patient in their interrogation, but also patently looking at the attack from different angles.

Cullen commented on the professionalism of the statement, inquired who had taken it. “This guardsman has some knowledge of magic. It is obvious from what is written here - the descriptions, the phrasing.”

Sebastian pleaded uncertainty, not lying. “My head was in a whirl at that time, Cullen.”

The Knight-Captain nodded. Sebastian examined the templar’s face, his manner. The Chantry Brother could not see any sign of stress or trauma in the man opposite him. Cullen took notes, and as he finished the interview, looked up to find Sebastian watching him.

No cocked eyebrows for the Knight-Captain. “You wish to ask a question, Brother Sebastian?”

“You -” Sebastian tried to think of a way to ask without bringing Anders into it “- have been the victim of a blood mage attack? In Ferelden.”

Silence. Cullen’s face was a cold mask. Not angry, but as though frozen. The response, when it came, crawled out, careful. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

Sebastian asked, “Cullen, will I ever be able to put this behind me?” instead of answering.

Cullen swallowed. “No. It will always be with you, Sebastian. The dreams may not trouble you as much later, but they will always return. Smells, sounds, things you see unexpectedly will bring you back to the attack. You learn to -” he swallowed again “- cope. You must, or you might go mad.”

Sebastian closed his eyes to go further. “How -” his groggy throat needed to be cleared “- do you remain a man of faith?”

“Is that why you left the Chantry, Sebastian?” Cullen’s voice was low, quiet, personal. 

Sebastian missed Cullen’s glance at the solidly closed wooden door.

“I -” Sebastian opened and focused his blue eyes on the templar “- have not left the Chantry.” There was a pause. “Yet.”

“What exactly are you doing, Sebastian?” Cullen’s question came filled with sympathy. “Why this rigmarole to find you?

“What kind of ministry could you be doing down in Darktown?” The awful blankness was gone, but Sebastian could only describe the replacement expression as controlled, careful.

Careful was what Sebastian needed to be now. “I am living among the Fereldan refugees in Darktown. I speak of the Chant and Andraste and the Maker to the Dalish expatriates, the _elvhen_ there, sharing the Chant with all who will listen.” That much was true enough. “I have sat over death beds, helped to prepare bodies for the pyre, bound wounds, carried water and distributed food.”

Cullen’s eyes - his entire expression - became keen. “You’re at the Darktown clinic, aren’t you? Is that why no one in the Chantry knows where you went? Where to find you? Does Elthina...  
Elthina would know, wouldn’t she?”

Sebastian waited. Better to wait than to speak and remove doubt. They had been answering each other’s questions with questions of their own. Sebastian could think of none, nor a deflection. He would not lie outright. Sebastian was not in that place anymore, and had no desire to return to it. 

“Maker, Sebastian.” Cullen was distressed. “Are you certain you know what you’re doing? There are mages in those tunnels -” and wasn’t that heavily weighted “- blood mages as well as apostates.”

“Yes, there is danger,” Sebastian answered that last, “and I have also been aiding Hawke in his hunt to destroy the blood mages and their demons. At the request, I believe, of your Knight-Commander.”

There were thoughts shifting behind that keen gaze now. “The Knight-Commander requested this review of your statement, Sebastian. When you disappeared from the Chantry, word came to the Gallows that you were not to be found. Meredith sent others to find you before she assigned me. Ordinarily this review is handled quickly, then filed.”

“Do you think that I am possessed because I am working with the poor, Cullen? That I am some blood mage’s thrall? Is that what Meredith is implying? Is that why she sent you?” Sebastian found himself becoming angry.

“I had not thought so,” Cullen said slowly, with a peculiar emphasis, “but now I am wondering. I do not see any hint of possession, Sebastian. But then I didn’t see it in Wilmot either, just odd behavior, and I remember you were there with Hawke when that occurred. When you rescued me. When you rescued Keran and returned him to the Templars.”

“Keran, who is also not possessed,” Sebastian murmured.

“We have only Hawke’s word for it,” Cullen pointed out.

Sebastian looked at the templar. “Hawke’s, and Fenris’s, and mine.”

Cullen sighed, looking away. “Sebastian, you will need to be very, very careful. These are dangerous times.”

Sebastian’s laugh was short and harsh at that thought. “I believe you,” he said bitterly.

Cullen corrected himself: “Politically, these are very dangerous times. The base of power here in Kirkwall is unsettled. No Viscount. Increasing problems with apostates. The Qunari are gone, but there is no guarantee that war will not come from another side. Please be careful in your alliances. What you do will reflect on the Chantry. On the Grand Cleric.”

“Hawke saved me.” It came out more of a growl than Sebastian expected.

“Yes, I know. He saved me as well. Just...” Cullen gave it some thought, then seemed to change tack. “Hawke is a known supporter of the Magist cause. His company includes apostate mages. We know this, but cannot prove it. And he has been petitioning Knight-Commander Meredith for visitation rights to see his sister at the Gallows.”

“Do you find this curious? That he would want to see Bethany?” Sebastian asked gravely.

“It is not how this is done. It is rare for a family to keep close to a mage. I know of only one exception from Lake Calenhad, and none here, except for Bethany. Letters and packages received at the Gallows for her are thoroughly searched before Meredith decides whether or not she should receive them. This attention is unusual. It attracts further attention, Sebastian,” Cullen tried to explain.

There was silence for a time. Cullen suddenly looked away from his examination of Sebastian and spoke, “You asked about faith, Sebastian. My faith was not enough to sustain me when I was trapped and tormented in the tower.” Sebastian winced, a wash of cold spiraling up his spine. “They - Uldred’s coterie - offered me something I wanted very much. Something that it was wrong for me to want. Something... some _one_ it was not in their power to give me.

“It would have been so easy -” Cullen’s voice trembled “- to give in, to live the lie they offered, even if only for a moment. The utter wrongness of it, Sebastian, was what kept me from submitting to them as every other templar trapped in the tower did.

“I...after the Hero rescued me, I was the lone templar survivor inside the tower. The only one. Knight-Commander Greagoir and a handful of others were outside when Uldred took over. We were so much more than decimated, only a tenth were left.

“I was alone. More mages survived than templars, you know. Senior Enchanter Wynne with a number of young mages and a handful of children, apprentices. A mage hiding in a wardrobe in the mages’ quarters. Anders in the dungeon. First Enchanter Irving held in the Harrowing Chamber for Uldred to turn him into an abomination.”

Sebastian hid his start at Anders’s name. Cullen was not looking at him. The Chantry Brother asked, “So many mages survived? And all the other templars submitted?”

Cullen closed his eyes in pain. “I was the only one left. The rest were blood thralls who fought the Hero to the death, or were possessed and destroyed fighting the Hero when he came through in search of the First Enchanter.”

Opening them again, Cullen met Sebastian’s questioning gaze. “Of course, mages in the towers outnumber the templars.”

“And the Tranquil?” Sebastian was curious.

Even more curious when Cullen flinched. “Owain survived. The Tranquil are of no interest to demons; that is the point of the Tranquility rite, they should have been all but invisible. But they still had blood. And they won’t run away in fear. Owain went back to his storeroom and began to put things back in order. The Hero found him, killed anything in that area that might have attacked him.”

Sebastian swallowed the lump rising in his throat. Cullen’s head was bowed now, and his breathing was slow and carefully controlled. “They were not friends. The Tranquil cannot be friends. One can be friendly toward them, but they feel nothing in return. But they were in my care. I was responsible for them and for the mages. I watched some of those people die in horrible and messy ways. Pain and terror are part of the power blood mages receive from their rites.” At that, Sebastian nodded. He had heard as much from Anders. 

Cullen gave a great heaving draw of breath. “My job here, Sebastian, is to make certain that does not happen here. Knight-Commander Meredith took a chance on me, and I have worked to earn her trust after what happened in Ferelden.

“But faith. It was not faith that helped me though. Is it faith to want to prevent those horrors from ever happening again? Because I doubt it was my faith that anchored me at Kinloch Hold, or if it was just plain stubbornness.

“Stubbornness and the knowledge that Surana Amell was dead, killed during a blood mage’s escape, and their offers were worth nothing. I knew that when they made her appear to me, offering me...they did not have that power.”

“They offered you lust?” Sebastian asked.

“Only they called it love. And a family. Freedom from my vows. Happiness. As if happiness and love could result from torture and blood and evil. Sebastian, they are evil and must be fought.

“They broke me, Sebastian. Greagoir eventually sent me away, but only for a short time. I would have killed every mage in that Circle to be certain that Uldred’s evil was eradicated. After that slaughter, I would still not have been sure. I would have murdered them. Then killed even more mages where I could find them. I would have become like Uldred’s blood mages in my fear. A small step over the the edge into madness. It was not my faith, but Greagoir’s, that saved me.

“The Knight-Commander called me back, worked with me. He refused to give me up, to let me go. A mind healer came from another Circle - I think he was from Orlais - and Greagoir was with me every moment I was in Healer Talley’s hands. It is only because of them that I was able to crawl up that long steep rocky slope to sanity.”

Cullen paused, nodded his head to a thought. “Andraste’s Chant tells us that the Maker has turned his back. That we must do what works we can to gain his ear, must carry the Chant to bring him back to Thedas. I work to that end, in the hope that my faith will help others the way that Greagoir’s faith saved me.”

Looking back, his eyes met Sebastian’s. “Is that an answer to your question, Sebastian?”

Sebastian was deep in thought for a moment, “Yes, thank you, Cullen. I have been -” how to put this? “- graced with a number of people who have helped me in that way. Their faiths have been unorthodox, but certain. Elthina has trusted that my path through Darktown will lead me back into Andraste’s light.

“I have also seen -” Sebastian cleared his throat from too much emotion “- and learned from this.”

Sebastian felt he had to give warning, though of course it might be ignored. He had no faith in Meredith Stannard. Perhaps Cullen would be more likely to use this knowledge. “You are aware more than most of the increase in abominations, blood mages and demons?”

At Cullen’s nod, he went on, “In Darktown, and the places of the Undercity, there is a custom among the inhabitants of keeping songbirds, caged.”

“Pets?” asked Cullen, perplexed.

“No, though some do become beloved. Cats and dogs too often get eaten, as do the rats of Darktown.” Sebastian laughed at Cullen’s expression. “Better rat than starvation. In any event, the songbirds are kept as a warning. If Chokedamp or some other deadly vapor comes, the bird sickens before anything else. The birds stop singing, fall over, often die. There is that warning at least to remove to a less dangerous area, or to come out into the open air of Lowtown.”

“Are these songbirds of yours - well, of Darktown’s - warning of something greater than Chokedamp? Or would you have us fill the Gallows with them?”

Sebastian was serious in the face of Cullen’s joke. “You already have them, Cullen. The mages are the songbirds for Kirkwall. Something troubling is coming, or is here. This increase in activity is giving us our warning.”

“Would you have us kill the mages to prevent this evil? Or make them all Tranquil? I would have thought differently of you.” Cullen watched Sebastian carefully.

“If you do -” Sebastian kept his eyes to Cullen’s, and his tone even “- then you will destroy your warning system. Whatever is coming, I would have you be ready. And it seems to me that the mages should be warned as well. If you make them all Tranquil, you will lose their skills and experience in our fight against this evil.” 

Cullen blew out a breath. “I cannot tell, Sebastian, if you are prophesying, or reacting to the attack by the blood mage. I will think upon it.”

Sebastian gave a sigh, and finally, a smile. “I trust you to think on my words, Cullen. The mages and the Qunari are not the only problems for the Chantry in Kirkwall.”

Cullen nodded, then stood, taking his helmet in hand. “I think that we are done here, Sebastian. Know that you can reach me at the Gallows, and I will give consideration to what you have told me today.”

“Thank you.” Sebastian stood and offered his hand for Cullen’s firm clasp.

Reaching the door, Cullen paused. “You should know that we have received notice to watch out for a dangerous apostate. Tall, long blond hair tied back, brown eyes, gold hoop in his left ear. He was tried in absentia in Orlais for the murder of quite a large number of templars in Ferelden.” He shot a quick glance at Sebastian, who was impassive. “I knew him in the Circle - Kinloch Hold in Ferelden.”

“Was he one of the blood mages from the uprising?” Sebastian asked in what he knew failed at nonchalance.

Cullen breathed out heavily. “No. He just -” another breath “- he was a man who kept escaping. I would never have thought him a murderer. Rather likeable, somewhat thoughtless. Prone to temper, but charming the next moment. Fifteen templars is rather a lot of men to die by his hand. The last eight were ripped to pieces, as though by a demon. If he had come to Kirkwall, Darktown might just be the place he would gravitate toward. He was found guilty by a court in the Grand Cathedral.”

“In absentia?” Sebastian was thoughtful. “He was tried in Orlais for crimes committed in Ferelden?”

Cullen’s voice was like stone. “He was tried by the Chantry, which has dominion over the Circles and all mages in the lands outside of Tevinter, in the center of Chantry power in Orlais.

“And -” Cullen’s pause startled Sebastian “- this mage was sentenced to death. He is a very dangerous man.”

Sebastian pulled upon his years of deceit as an adolescent. “Then he would be very foolish to come here, to Kirkwall, where the templar presence is so strong.”

“Yes,” Cullen said with a hint of irony. “He would indeed.”

Sebastian followed after a time, making his way to Aveline’s office, knowing that she would want to know what Cullen had said. Upon closing the door behind him, the Chantry brother discovered Fenris seated in a chair by the window, examining one of Aveline’s books. “Fenris?” Sebastian was startled.

“Anders came to fetch me. Seemed to think you would need rescuing.” Fenris cocked his head. “Do you need rescuing?”

This, this was what Sebastian had called the grace of the Maker. That his friends cared for him, that they worked together to see to his safety. “Yes. Or no, I do not need rescuing this day, my friend. Thank you. I am, however, pleased to see you.”

Fenris’s small smile was a blessing in itself. Together they returned to the Clinic.


	29. Merrill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blood Mage speaks.

He could smell her before he saw her. The scent of green growing things certainly, but overlaid on the metallic odor of blood. “Merrill.” Sebastian looked up at the blood mage uncomfortably.

“Sebastian!” Merrill was nothing if not perky.

Sebastian was polite. “Neither Anders nor Hawke are here.”

It was quiet in the clinic. No one had come in all morning, and Sebastian was working on his thoughts for a discussion of Trials for the Elvhen coming in tomorrow. Merrill ducked her head. “It was you I’ve come to see, Sebastian. I expect that you’d want to speak to me, rather.”

“I wanted to speak with you? What did you think I would want to speak about?” Sebastian could think of no reason why she would, or what she wanted.

“Yes, well...” Merrill’s accent had become stronger. “I thought that you might...have things...that you want to say to me.”

Sebastian’s mind stuttered. “What? Why would you think that? What?”

“Oh.” Merrill looked down at her scarred hands. “Well, about the blood magic. It is usual for someone who has been wounded as you to feel angry. To need to let go of that anger you...

“Well. Grief. Anger. It’s alright, Sebastian.” Merrill nodded seriously. “I expect you would like to tell me - well, probably to shout at me, really.”

Sebastian was aghast. “You want me to shout at you?”

“I don’t really want you to shout at me, exactly,” Merrill’s clear treble answered. “But I am here if you need to be angry.”

“Does Hawke know you are here?” Sebastian was certain he should not let loose the black rage that he had hidden away so deeply.

No, he was not certain; he was unwilling. Was it rage? Anger? Or hurt and fear and loathing at his own powerless self?

“Also,” she said as if he had not asked that question, “living with Anders cannot be easy. You can be angry with me, Sebastian. It’s alright.”

Blood magic. That copper stench turned Sebastian’s stomach. Of course Merrill smelt of other things as well: herbs and the almost musty sweet scent of the alienage _vhenadahl_ in bloom.

“Let me see your hands, Merrill?” He did not know why he asked that. No, actually, he really did.

Merrill held her hands up on either side of her face, small scars crossing the lines of her palms. His eyes flickered, searching for new cuts. There were none, though Sebastian knew Merrill had not given up on her goal to restore the Eluvian.

When he spoke, it came in a flood. “Have you given up the blood magic? Or are you waiting for a chance to play with that mirror? What will you give, Merrill? Your blood to the last drop? And then to what will you turn?

“Would Hawke’s blood fix your trinket? You care for him, so would that not be a greater sacrifice? You do not like me or Fenris or Anders. Would our blood be preferable, if less powerful? Where will it stop, the demon’s suggestions for repair?”

“Have you never wondered why,” Merrill asked without answering the questions, “I have worked so hard to restore the Eluvian?”

“I know why you are doing it,” Sebastian snorted.

“Do you really? I don’t recall anyone other than Hawke actually asking me about it.” Merrill cocked her head.

Sebastian felt ill at the thought of hearing her justification. “Alright, Merrill. Tell me. I will listen.”

“It started with Tamlen and Theron,” she stated simply.


	30. Eluvian

This was not the beginning that Sebastian expected. Where was the lost history of the _elvhen?_

“They were out hunting and ended up in some ruins. They were odd ruins, not _elvhen_ , or at least not Dalish. Human mixed with antiquities from before the Dales. The fallen columns and ruined walls held darkspawn and an artifact from Arlathan, the ancient _elvhen_ kingdom.

“The artifact, an Eluvian, was tainted by the Blight. Tamlen had talked Theron into exploring the ruins in the first place. Tamlen saw a ruined city in the mirror. It was whole then, though not unharmed. Tamlen also touched the Eluvian, though Theron tried to stop him. 

“Tamlen...vanished. Theron said it was the last he remembered until a Grey Warden found him, dying. We never saw Tamlen again.” The grief in the Dalish woman’s clear voice was sharp and real. “I tried to use the pieces of the Eluvian to scry for Tamlen. The taint was too strong.”

Sebastian asked carefully, “Where did he go? Did he die?”

“No, Sebastian.” Her voice was quiet. “He disappeared. Possibly into the Deep Roads. Duncan said he would turn into one of the Blighted. A ghoul. We heard from Theron later that he had turned, almost eaten alive by the Blight. He attacked Theron, and those companions with him had killed Tamlen.”

Sympathy was easy. “I am sorry, Merrill.”

The Blight was something that imperiled every being, no matter the race or country. It had been with great trepidation that the Free Marches had watched the news from Ferelden.

“Yes,” Merrill replied. “But I might have been able to find him, Sebastian. If I had found him, then perhaps Duncan could have saved him as he did Theron. But Theron broke the mirror.”

“Who is Duncan? How did he save Theron? There is no cure for the taint!” Sebastian was beyond confused.

“Duncan was a Grey Warden. Like Anders. Well, not much like Anders. His voice was much deeper. He had a dark beard flecked with gray. At first I thought a squirrel had attacked his chin.”

“Duncan?” Confusion was not going away. How on Thedas did Hawke keep things straight on a daily basis?

“Yes, Commander of the Grey for Ferelden.”

“He cured your friend, Theron, of the taint?” Sebastian wondered how that had happened.

“Well, somewhat. He made Theron a Grey Warden. It doesn’t cure the taint exactly. Just puts it off a bit. Has Anders ever spoken about it?”

Wordless, Sebastian shook his head.

“It’s a Warden’s secret, Marethari told me. The Keepers know. The taint.” Merrill’s treble explained, “They infect them, the Grey Warden candidates, with the darkspawn taint. If they survive, then they can sense the darkspawn. Eventually it still takes them, of course.”

Sebastian’s stomach lurched, then lurched again. Anders was tainted. Sebastian slept within arm’s reach of someone infected with the Blight, with the Maker’s punishment for the Magisters’ trespass on the Maker’s Golden City. Anders, a mage, was literally blighted.

Sebastian tasted bile. Not vomit. Not yet, however. Every hair on his arms and neck was standing: the auburn thatch on his head felt as though it was creeping off his skull.

Fear. Such as he had felt so recently in Ostea’s hands.

Merrill - blood mage, Dalish Merrill was eyeing him, taking in his reaction. Why had Sebastian never noticed how this woman watched them all? “It is not,” Anders had said, “paranoia if they are trying to get you.”

Sebastian closed his eyes, seeking calm, striving for what? Fear, fear must be allowed to warn, but not to control. Sebastian must let go of his fear. Closed eyes around Merrill. No. Breathing controlled, calmed. Merrill would not hurt him. If only because Merrill was deeply and truly in love with Hawke. That aspect was one of which Sebastian had no doubt.

Anders would not hurt him. Anders had invested a goodly amount of time and energy in pulling Sebastian back together. The Grey Warden was tainted. But Anders would not be working in the Clinic in Darktown if his taint was able to spread. Would it be easier to stuff this fear into the black core of rage Sebastian kept inside?

No. No. No. Fears needed to be faced. Ostea had taught him that, if nothing else. Sebastian looked at his reactions. The fright of the taint, of Merrill’s use of blood magic, of all mages.

Reaction to Anders’s Grey Warden taint was unjustified. Anders had not betrayed him. There was relief at the thought. Startled, Sebastian realized that Justice had not entered into his thoughts at all this time. He was uncertain whether this was good or possibly a problem.

Meanwhile, Merrill. Sebastian took a deep breath and opened his eyes to the Dalish mage’s watching green gaze. Merrill nodded. “You are alright, Sebastian?”

Not an offer to stop. Readiness to move on.

Sebastian realized in a flash that all the time he had thought Merrill tactless or, if not foolish, then of a wandering mind. Not innocent, but feckless.

“You do that deliberately.” Sebastian felt his voice breaking. “You purposely make comments to get us going, don’t you?”

Merrill nodded, not in the least defensive. “Keeper’s First, Sebastian. There are times when an infection needs to be lanced, or a stomach needs to be purged. If you let a wound heal over an infection, it grows. The infection, not the wound of course. If you’ve swallowed poison, it must come out, or you’ll die.”

“And you are comparing my feelings, my fear to poison?” Sebastian felt oddly relieved.

“If it were you,” Merrill commented, “if anger and hatred were all there was to you, Sebastian, then you would not be loved as much as you are. Hawke loves you. Fenris does as well. Hawke loves easily. Look at the company he has gathered. Fenris...” There was a significant pause. “Does not. 

“I had no idea Fenris had the potential,” the lilting voice went on, “until Isabela. And you.”

Sebastian’s face warmed. “Not the same thing,” he pointed out.

“No, but it’s love,” Merrill disagreed, “and love is so important.”

“How important?” Sebastian looked at her intensely.

Merrill stopped and looked the man in the eye with a twinkle. “Did your Maker love Andraste?”

“The Maker loves all of his creations -” Sebastian tried to see the trap “- but especially his Bride.”

“Indeed. And mourns them when they go wrong, I would wager.” Merrill’s green eyes were still gleaming. “Then you should believe that love is a gift of your Maker.”


	31. Love

When there is a trap, trip it. “Merrill?” Sebastian tried not to sound condescending, but he might have been a tad impatient. “What is your point?”

“If I had been able to fix the Eluvian, then I might have been able to save Tamlen. Theron. And there are so many others I might be able to save as well. People in the future. Not just the Dalish. Not just _elvhen_. Surely even your Maker would approve of that? I could have used it to protect Hawke. I might have been able to save Leandra from Quentin. I might have… There are so many things I could have done.

“It is a tool, Sebastian; the Eluvian is a tool and not evil in itself. Just as blood magic is not evil in itself. Knowing the uses of the power inside of you, whether it is mana or blood, is a gift. Perhaps from the Creators, perhaps even from your Maker. What is wrong and twisted is the misuse of power. 

“In their fear, your Chantry has forbidden all books and scrolls on anatomy for fear they will be used in blood magic. Healers like Anders do without, have to learn all things new through trial and error, individually rather than building on information that was discovered centuries ago.

“A tool such as the Eluvian is destroyed rather than allow it to fall into... no, that is not true. Duncan had Theron shatter it because of the Blight, not because it was blood magic. The Grey Wardens use blood magic. When it suits them.”

Sebastian swallowed with difficulty at that. Taking a deep breath, he got up and fetched mugs, pouring cool herbal water into them, and served one to Merrill, then took a sip of his own. Soothing. “Merrill, I understand that you see the Eluvian as a useful tool, even poisoned as it is. What does that have to do with love?” Sebastian wanted clarity.

Merrill rolled the cool water in her mouth, swallowed, then said, “I wanted to fix the Eluvian to use it for those I care for. To have that tool to save my clan. Not to have power over anyone. For all that Anders believes that I am a ‘demon with a virginal face’, controlling others is not something I enjoy or desire.

“We, the Dalish, will not prosper as we have been going. My people are angry, filled with hatred most times for those who are not part of our way. City _elvhen_ run away from their alienages to seek their fortunes with the clans. On occasion, those of the clans leave to join the outside for one reason or another. The clans grow smaller and smaller, edged out by human settlements, our territory taken away by those who will not share. Arlathan has been lost. No one knows where to find it.

“But Tamlen and Theron saw a city in the reflection before it was shattered. Tamlen was taken there, away from the ruins in which they found the Eluvian. The Eluvian is a doorway.” She looked into Sebastian’s eyes, seeking understanding.

“You?” Sebastian marshalled his thoughts. “Do you think that the doorway leads to Arlathan?”

“I do.” Merrill nodded. “And I think that the Dalish would be able to fight the darkspawn there, especially now that the Blight has ended. We could clean the taint from the city and reestablish a homeland there.”

Blinking, Sebastian waited, watching the former Keeper’s First. Merrill met his eyes again, then held up her hand. “But this...” She showed her arm, scarred, but free of fresh cuts. “Hawke believes that it might be true that the Eluvian leads to Arlathan, but blood magic is too great a price to pay. Too easily distorted into something twisted and wrong. Especially here in Kirkwall, with its history and problems. Hawke believes that while I would not seek power over others of my race or yours, there are others he does not trust quite so much. They are filled with too much anger and hatred, and too little love for anyone but the small portion of clan that is their world.”

Merrill put her face down and muttered, “After all he has done for them, the clan still treats him with ill humor and suspicion. Threatens him when he walks Sundermount.”

“You love Hawke,” Sebastian started.

“And so I will not use blood magic. At his request. Not even -” Merrill did not raise her eyes, staring down into the bottom of the mug “- to save his life.”

There was silence, or what passed for it in Darktown. The scrabble of rodent claws behind the walls, shouts from a distance, water dripping from a ceiling outside the clinic, but still audible here. A myriad of sounds. Sebastian breathed out, “And so you came today to let me yell at you?”

There was a sigh. “To give you the opportunity to release some of the anger you are holding on it. Too much anger leads to rage. Working with the spirits has taught me that. And rage is not good for you.” Sebastian was unsure whether Merrill meant him, or herself, or beings in general.

Merrill went on, “Rage burns you, like an acid more than a fire. It burns the people who hold on to it rather than letting it go.”

“Thank you.” Sebastian looked at the woman, slight, reminding him of a bird, sparrow rather than a dove, alien ears and features, but familiar just the same. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

The brunette cocked her head, those larger-than-human ears listening for what he might have been saying under the face of his words. “You are welcome.” She smiled in reply.

When Hawke, Anders, and Fenris returned, they found Merrill and Sebastian drawing symbols on pieces of scrap paper that Anders kept around, and arguing comparative religions.


	32. A Question

It was while they relaxed after a day of bandit hunting on the shores of the Wounded Coast - a small group, all male - that the discussion came. Evening had come, the sky was dark, the air was warm and full of the scent of flowers. Merrill was digging in a garden bed near the kitchen after cheerfully greeting them. Bodahn had brought refreshments to their seats under the fruit trees, and Hawke, Varric, Sebastian, Fenris, and Anders sat enjoying a chance to rest and each other’s company. During a break in the conversation, Sebastian asked a question.

The question was full of pauses, as Sebastian struggled for the words that would convey his thoughts correctly. “I know that we are, all of us, the sum of our pasts. Without changing whom we are, but given any path being open, any path at all, what would you wish for the future?”

It was Anders who sounded incredulous. “You want to know what we wish for?”

“For yourself, not for the world, Anders,” Sebastian said gently, “and not for Justice.”

Hawke looked at Anders. “Well, I would wonder what Justice would wish for, if he could have anything. Would he want to go home to the Fade?”

Anders put his head in his hands. “You put me on the spot, don’t you? I don’t know if Justice is capable of this type of imaginative exercise.”

There was silence from the men. Sounds of the city outside the walls of Hawke’s home were muted by the vine clad walls. Justice’s arrival was not heralded by sound, more a feeling as the air of the walled garden became close.

“Hawke.” Anders had straightened, his now blue eyes glowing, the energy around him almost visible as his posture changed to one of martial attitude, so different from Anders’s nondescript physical expression, and of course, the voice.

“Justice,” Hawke greeted the spirit, whose attention was solely on the big fighter.

“Anders has set a difficult task of me. I am uncertain. What use does this exercise have?”

Hawke smiled fondly. “It enables us to share our thoughts, Justice. If we know more about each other, then it is easier to anticipate the moves and needs of our company, of our community. This is a thing friends do, Justice.”

Anders’s usually mobile face was expressionless and the four men watched it as the spirit processed the words. 

Sebastian was quiet, as he had become used to waiting for Justice. Hawke’s concern was written on his bearded face, but Sebastian was not certain if the concern was for Anders, or Justice’s understanding. Fenris shifted uneasily, looking down at the bottle of wine by his chair, but not refilling the glass he rolled in his hand. Varric looked distant, as if putting the description into words for later.

“I would,” the deep reverberation that was not Anders went on, “be clean.”

Justice left abruptly, and Anders sagged in his chair. Fenris pressed a glass into Anders’s hand, and the mage swallowed the contents at a gulp, then started to cough.

Fenris clapped the man on his back until Anders waved him off. “Maker!”

Grabbing his own mug of water from the ground by his chair, he sipped it cautiously.

“What did he mean?” asked Hawke. “Dirty Justice sounds like something in one of your novels, Varric.”

Varric raised his glass at the comment. Fenris concentrated on the difficult task of refilling his own glass with precision, ignoring Anders. The mage swallowed more water, then answered Hawke, “He wants to be rid of Vengeance. I hardly blame him.”

Varric sipped thoughtfully. “And rid of you as well, Blondie?”

“Quite possibly.” Anders grimaced. “He does not deal well with my human foibles.”

Hawke, lost in thought, nodded, then looked Anders in the eyes. “What do you want?”

“Another drink?” Anders said lightly. “Oh, you mean Sebastian’s question. With all of the qualifications?”

Hawke was not the only one who nodded. Anders laughed. “I have been having the most incredible dream lately.”

What was it that caused the other four to tense, to stare at that statement? Their thoughts were all the same. Sebastian asked, “You’re not speaking of the darkspawn dreams, are you?”

“I have been dreaming of a woman. A wife, and a home and family. Don’t panic. It’s not a demonic dream, not a spirit dream either. No desire demon, just an ordinary dream, so you can all relax.” The crooked grin revealed that he understood their concerns.

“Not very likely to happen, either,” he acknowledged without waiting for any response.

To break the silence, he asked, “Hawke, what is your answer to Sebastian’s question?”

Hawke’s heart was written on his face as he watched Merrill across the garden. “I wish to marry.” His baritone slipped a little from nervousness at the admission. “But Merrill feels that marriage would be unwise.”

There was heavy thought filling their end of the small courtyard. Marriage between a human and an elf was very rare. A union between a devout Andrastian and a Dalish was startling.  
Sebastian tried to think of an acceptable way to tell Hawke that the pair would be unevenly yoked, and that such a joining would be difficult at best. Instead he asked, “Marriage for you and Anders. Fenris, would you wish to marry Isabela?”

“Yes.” There was a pause. “I have not asked her. Isabela says that she has been married enough for this lifetime.”

Varric laughed. “That would be an interesting scene to write, the weddings of Daisy and Isabela.”

Sebastian examined the dwarf. “Have you no desire to marry, then, Varric?”

“Mother would be pleased,” rumbled their friend, “but there are two impediments. First of all, eligible maidens of dwarven noble lineage are not readily available. Secondly, Bianca is more than enough for me.”

“Then what would be your dream?” Sebastian wondered.

Pursing his lips, Varric mused, “My dream? To tell your stories. And I’m already doing that, aren’t I?” He grinned at them all. “I am Living The Dream!”

Varric poured from the pitcher into Hawke’s mug and his own. “Now, Choir Boy, what’s with that particular question? And what would be your own answer?”

Sebastian leaned back. “In truth, I am not certain what I wish for. Nor what I look to for the future. 

“Family life has never appealed to me. I have never met a woman or man that I wished to commit to for the rest of my life. When I have thought of the future, it was of one in service to the Chantry, to Andraste and the Maker.”

Fenris cocked his head. “Do you no longer see that future, Sebastian? It has not come back to you? I had hoped that it would be part of your healing.”

Sebastian’s smile at his friend was fond. “I have been looking at new possibilities. The knowledge that Kirkwall is a deathtrap was frightening. The idea that the Chantry does nothing to deal with the increasing problems even more so. Elthina must be warned.

“Meredith is wrong, but Orsino is as well. There must be a way to work together to solve this puzzle. Templars, the Chantry, the city, and the mages. And while I cannot see a future such as Anders might envision, I do see that the Gallows is not how a Circle should be run. The templars as an order have gone mightily astray.

“Marriage and a home do not tempt me. The idea of such service as might be found in this great adventure does.

“And while I mourn the idea that I might have lived in humility and served the city of Kirkwall and her Chantry by preaching sermons on the Chant, hearing confession and granting absolution, singing the words of Andraste for the rest of my life, and working among Kirkwall’s humblest citizens, I do not think it is my place any longer.

“You may, of course, chaff me about my inability to keep to a steady course.” This last was said with a smile.

Fenris smiled, though his eyes were caught by the deep red of the wine in his glass. “Is it not our right as friends to jest with you about it, even as it is our privilege to assist you with the task?”

Anders smiled sadly, holding up his mug of water by way of a toast. “To working together on your task, Sebastian. I hope that somehow we will make it work.”


	33. Information

Varric was watching the toasts with an odd expression. “So, Blondie, you haven’t managed to brainwash the Choir Boy to your way of thinking, have you? And it’s been six months?”

“What makes you think I tried, Varric?” Anders snapped angrily, water sloshing from the wooden mug with a violent gesture of his hand.

Varric smirked. “You never stop speaking of the plight of the mages when we’re out cleaning up Tal-Vashoth or seeking out kidnapped maidens. You’re hardly likely to stop when you’ve got Sebastian in your clutches down in Darktown.”

It was almost a shout: “He’s my patient, Varric!” 

“He’s trying to get under your skin, Anders,” came Hawke’s deep voice, sounding remarkably calm. “Don’t let him rile you up.”

“The question is why he’s messing with you,” Sebastian said thoughtfully, looking at the dwarf with hooded eyes.

Varric laughed. “You’ve got me, Choir Boy. It was either that or to chaff you for failing to convert Anders.”

Sebastian shook his head with a laugh. “You cannot convert the faithful, Varric.”

That stopped the laughter. “You’re shitting me!” came illustrated with raised eyebrows.

Blue eyes and green, as well as angry brown, were fixed on the dwarf. Anders’s “It’s none of your business, Varric” was hidden under Sebastian’s, “Anders is Andrastian, Varric. I thought you knew?”

Fenris had learned long ago to mimic a haughty arrogance learned from Danarius. He used it now as he rumbled, “I have heard Anders sing the Chant, Varric, in Trade and Tevene.” 

Varric gawped. “You’re pulling my leg. Anders?”

The mage responded with a little more control. “Yes, Varric? Would you care to hear it? I could probably translate it into Dwarven for you.” That last was bitter.

Sebastian’s comment was mild: “I know that Anders attends confession weekly. He is one of those whom the Grand Cleric personally prays for.”

Varric’s hysterics prevented any further commentary as he laughed until his sides ached. Hawke was not laughing with him, though a smile appeared under the big black beard. It was fond. Hawke was always fond of everyone he chose to keep in company. It was infectious, but Anders did not join in. Fenris pointedly drank. Sebastian shot a look at Anders as if to say, “Tell the truth, always. They will not necessarily believe you.”

After Varric had settled down somewhat, Anders cleared his throat for attention. “I, uh, meant to tell you something else, Hawke. Cullen gave Sebastian some information last week when he interviewed him about his capture. I’ve been ‘tried in absence’ by the Chantry in Orlais. They found me guilty of murder, apostacy, and being a maleficar. There is a reward on my head as a convicted and escaped murderer.”

That stopped the laughter. The smile on Hawke’s face turned to a frown of concern. “Anders, are you certain he was telling Sebastian the truth?”

Anders nodded tightly. “I checked with Aveline. The Fereldan courts threw the original charges out. Commander Mahariel stood as my advocate in the first place, and the court found a lack of evidence presented by the Chantry. Especially when witnesses could be found stating that the original templars died during a darkspawn attack while I was locked in a cell.

“The Chantry didn’t like that. So they used the Orlesian law regarding Chantry oversight of any Circle to form a separate tribunal within the church, much as they would have for a templar gone rogue. The trial was brief, and the evidence presented was apparently overwhelming, as it didn’t take a day for them to find me guilty and sentence me to execution. Sebastian checked it with Elthina, who is currently waiting for a response.”

“What did Aveline say?” There was no hint of humor or mischief in Varric’s voice now, and it was apparent what he was asking.

Anders looked relieved. “That Orlais has no civil authority over Kirkwall, nor does the Chantry. That while there is an extradition treaty between Orlais and each of the Free Marches cities individually, it requires the Chantry, or the Court of Orlais, to officially apply. After the criminal is captured, not before.

“Also, Cullen warned Sebastian deliberately. He was warning me. It cannot have escaped the Knight-Captain’s notice that I am the Darktown healer. The description was...distinctive.”

Hawke pursed his lips and thought. “We may be able to use that information if they ever capture you. The wheels of Justice - not our Justice you understand - can be made to run exceedingly slowly.”

“I thought the quote was ‘fine’, Hawke,” Varric put in. “The wheels of justice grind exceedingly fine.”

A cheeky grin appeared under the bushy black beard. “Then we’ll jam a spike in the wheel and stop it completely. Won’t we, Anders?” It was a reassuring grin now.


	34. Hawke

Varric was watching the toasts with an odd expression. “So, Blondie, you haven’t managed to brainwash the Choir Boy to your way of thinking, have you? And it’s been six months?”

“What makes you think I tried, Varric?” Anders snapped angrily, water sloshing from the wooden mug with a violent gesture of his hand.

Varric smirked. “You never stop speaking of the plight of the mages when we’re out cleaning up Tal-Vashoth or seeking out kidnapped maidens. You’re hardly likely to stop when you’ve got Sebastian in your clutches down in Darktown.”

It was almost a shout: “He’s my patient, Varric!” 

“He’s trying to get under your skin, Anders,” came Hawke’s deep voice, sounding remarkably calm. “Don’t let him rile you up.”

“The question is why he’s messing with you,” Sebastian said thoughtfully, looking at the dwarf with hooded eyes.

Varric laughed. “You’ve got me, Choir Boy. It was either that or to chaff you for failing to convert Anders.”

Sebastian shook his head with a laugh. “You cannot convert the faithful, Varric.”

That stopped the laughter. “You’re shitting me!” came illustrated with raised eyebrows.

Blue eyes and green, as well as angry brown, were fixed on the dwarf. Anders’s “It’s none of your business, Varric” was hidden under Sebastian’s, “Anders is Andrastian, Varric. I thought you knew?”

Fenris had learned long ago to mimic a haughty arrogance learned from Danarius. He used it now as he rumbled, “I have heard Anders sing the Chant, Varric, in Trade and Tevene.” 

Varric gawped. “You’re pulling my leg. Anders?”

The mage responded with a little more control. “Yes, Varric? Would you care to hear it? I could probably translate it into Dwarven for you.” That last was bitter.

Sebastian’s comment was mild: “I know that Anders attends confession weekly. He is one of those whom the Grand Cleric personally prays for.”

Varric’s hysterics prevented any further commentary as he laughed until his sides ached. Hawke was not laughing with him, though a smile appeared under the big black beard. It was fond. Hawke was always fond of everyone he chose to keep in company. It was infectious, but Anders did not join in. Fenris pointedly drank. Sebastian shot a look at Anders as if to say, “Tell the truth, always. They will not necessarily believe you.”

After Varric had settled down somewhat, Anders cleared his throat for attention. “I, uh, meant to tell you something else, Hawke. Cullen gave Sebastian some information last week when he interviewed him about his capture. I’ve been ‘tried in absence’ by the Chantry in Orlais. They found me guilty of murder, apostacy, and being a maleficar. There is a reward on my head as a convicted and escaped murderer.”

That stopped the laughter. The smile on Hawke’s face turned to a frown of concern. “Anders, are you certain he was telling Sebastian the truth?”

Anders nodded tightly. “I checked with Aveline. The Fereldan courts threw the original charges out. Commander Mahariel stood as my advocate in the first place, and the court found a lack of evidence presented by the Chantry. Especially when witnesses could be found stating that the original templars died during a darkspawn attack while I was locked in a cell.

“The Chantry didn’t like that. So they used the Orlesian law regarding Chantry oversight of any Circle to form a separate tribunal within the church, much as they would have for a templar gone rogue. The trial was brief, and the evidence presented was apparently overwhelming, as it didn’t take a day for them to find me guilty and sentence me to execution. Sebastian checked it with Elthina, who is currently waiting for a response.”

“What did Aveline say?” There was no hint of humor or mischief in Varric’s voice now, and it was apparent what he was asking.

Anders looked relieved. “That Orlais has no civil authority over Kirkwall, nor does the Chantry. That while there is an extradition treaty between Orlais and each of the Free Marches cities individually, it requires the Chantry, or the Court of Orlais, to officially apply. After the criminal is captured, not before.

“Also, Cullen warned Sebastian deliberately. He was warning me. It cannot have escaped the Knight-Captain’s notice that I am the Darktown healer. The description was...distinctive.”

Hawke pursed his lips and thought. “We may be able to use that information if they ever capture you. The wheels of Justice - not our Justice you understand - can be made to run exceedingly slowly.”

“I thought the quote was ‘fine’, Hawke,” Varric put in. “The wheels of justice grind exceedingly fine.”

A cheeky grin appeared under the bushy black beard. “Then we’ll jam a spike in the wheel and stop it completely. Won’t we, Anders?” It was a reassuring grin now.


	35. Fenris

Fenris appeared at the clinic midway through the day, a surprise. Gesturing to Sebastian, the Elvhen moved to the private area, ducking under the curtain without hesitation or permission. “Sebastian!” Fenris reached to grasp his friend’s forearms, “A letter has come. Varania will be at the Hanged Man at noon!”

Anders joined them, his head poking through the tatty brown cloth, “What?”

“The letter I sent,” Fenris was still holding on to Sebastian tightly, ”The words I wrote to Varania. They brought her!”

Anders snapped, “Sebastian, go get Hawke! Quickly! Fenris, fetch your gear and meet us back here.” He was gone through the swinging curtain and they could hear him clearing the Clinic. Sebastian wondered if his face was as surprised as Fenris’ dark visage. Still, Anders had been a Grey Warden, a military organization, and Sebastian had seen him act decisively before. That had always been in a medical emergency, though.

When Hawke arrived with Merrill in tow, Anders faded into the background. “Do you think your sister can lead us to Danarius?” Hawke asked. 

Because of course that was the question that was on their minds. And had been, because this all smelled of prior planning to Sebastian. Anders’ reaction, Hawke’s authority, they had been thinking about the possibility of Danarius’ return, possibly since meeting Fenris. That it was not the question on Fenris’ mind became apparent, “Hawke, if we all show up at the Hanged Man we will frighten my sister out of her mind!”

Fenris had retrieved his armor and sword, armed and ready. Sebastian was dressed in the plain brown leather armor Hawke had given him, and was testing his bowstring. Anders disappeared again, but Sebastian could hear him moving about their quarters, hidden by the moving drapery. Merrill had been dismissed by Hawke to find Isabela and Varric and to stay with them in Varric’s suite in case of need. Hawke stopped and put his hands on Fenris’ shoulders, reminiscent of Fenris’ touch on Sebastian earlier. “Fenris,” Hawke was intense, “We will welcome your sister as one of us! Don’t worry!”

Fenris green eyes did not leave Hawke’s Fereldan blue as he relaxed under Hawke’s hold. “Thank you, Hawke,” sounded uncertain, but Fenris repeated it strongly, “Thank you all!”

Sebastian, Hawke and Anders followed an energetic Fenris down the steps to Lowtown and the Hanged Man. Anders in a quiet tone asked, “You realize this could be a trap?”

Hawke spoke out of the corner of his mouth and Sebastian could barely hear him, “Could? Will! What is the best way to deal with a trap?”

“Avoid it like the Blight?” Anders was guileless.

“Idiot,” said Hawke with affection. 

Slowly, because he’d heard this before from both Anders and Hawke Sebastian replied, “You trip it? Set it off?”

“Gold star for Sebastian!” Hawke exclaimed.

“And Fenris?” Sebastian asked, “What about him?”

“He has his friends there to support him,” was all cheerful Hawke.

“Hmmmff,” Anders snorted.

“Anders,” patient Hawke now, “Four of us took down Magister Corypheus, Ancient Tevinter Blood Mage, one of the Magisters who started the Blight with their invasion of the Golden City,” Sebastian remembered Anders speaking that name, “That fight was nasty, brutish, and long. But with all of us? Against a modern Tevene blood mage? I think we can manage.”

Sebastian said what was on his mind, “You and Anders have been planning for this?”

Another snort from Anders, and a laugh from Hawke. “Sebastian, do you think that we would leave Fenris to handle this by himself? To deal with that monster alone? Even if Fenris had never been there for me, had not fought at my side against Quentin, had not stood by me with the Qunari, I would not allow a tick like Danarius to take someone from My City,” there was that booming laugh again, “Forward into battle against Blood Magic! Do I have the right of it?”

They could see each other clearly in the hard sunshine of Lowtown, reflecting from the walls down into the tunnel like streets. Sebastian supposed that he was showing his unease, “What if,” he began, “I fall prey to this Blood Mage as well? What if he takes both Fenris and me? I am a weakness at your side against someone as manipulative and skilled as Danarius.”

Hawke stopped, turned, and put his large, square calloused hands on Sebastian’s brown leather clad shoulders, “You, Sebastian Vael, are not a liability. You are a strong warrior for Andraste and the Maker.”

Sebastian was aware that Fenris had stopped ahead and was looking back. Anders watched them from beside Hawke, his expression grave. “That did not help me before,” it did not come out as clearly as Sebastian would have liked. 

Hawke shot a glance at Anders, who bobbed his head slightly and walked quickly down the flat stone steps to where Fenris waited in puzzlement. “Sebastian, when you were a child, and a bow string snapped on you, what did your grandfather tell you?” it wasn’t condescending, the deep quiet voice with the question, it was simply Hawke explaining.

Sebastian swallowed, hearing his grandfather, “Change it out and start again, Seb.”

“It hurts like the Maker, doesn’t it? But you can’t let it stop you, Sebastian,” Hawke’s earnest voice rumbled, “Just like the rest of us. We do it one bit at a time, right? You have been there to help each of us. Blessed Andraste knows I would never have succeeded in this Champion of Kirkwall nonsense if it hadn’t been for you.”

Sebastian shook his head to disagree. His contribution to the group had been minimal, nothing at all really. In some ways he had brought divisiveness, arguing with Fenris, Varric, Isabela, not to mention Anders. Hawke reached out and gave the Chantry brother a small shake, “The one thing you have never said, Sebastian, is that my faith in the Maker is antithetical to a belief that mages are people. That they are children of the Maker, just as everyone else is. Blood Mages too. Children of the Maker. Andraste weeps for them too, Sebastian. People. Frail with mistakes just as the rest of us. Do you understand? We stand against a man. We stand with Fenris against someone of flesh as well as blood. We stand with Anders against a perversion, a causitive of abuses, just as the Templars we have battled are.

And because he is wrong, we will prevail. No. Not because he is wrong. Because together we are strong in spite of our flaws. And I truly believe that Andraste brought us together to do this. To fight this man. Evil? Yes. Powerful? Yes. But still, just a man. And you, my friend, and me, and Fenris, and Anders are going to beat the crap out of him.”

Sebastian began to laugh, the sound shoving it’s way past the choke in his throat. “Maker help us, Hawke. You are awful at sermons.”

“But,” Hawke looked at him keenly, “Do you understand what I am trying to say.”

The laughter had subsided to a chuckle. “Aye, I’m your man in this Hawke. We fight together.”

Hawke gave ‘his’ man a cheerful slap on the back, “Good! Because I’m going to need your Archers' eyes to watch our rear. And if it’s not a trick? Not a trap for Fenris? Then we’ll need you to sooth the frightened sister. Maker and Andraste know you’re the most normal of the bunch of us!”

A sharp nod to the first, a quirk of his lips up into a grin at the second, and Sebastian was ready to follow Hawke into the Ogre’s Den.


	36. Blood Mage

The Hanged Man gave off the usual stink of compressed masses of unwashed bodies, rank brewed liquid, slopped alcohol, and whatever vile ingredient had been rendered down for Corf’s stew that week. Noon was not a time when Sebastian had ever visited the tavern. Different faces looked up when the door opened, looking away in disinterest when as Sebastian entered behind the others. Corf and Norah looked familiar, of course, but the customers were not regular. 

A single elf sat in the Main room, hardly a surprise in spite of comparative closeness to the Alienage. She had red hair, auburn rather than the fiery shade of Aveline’s braids. Difficult to tell age or eye color until closer. The woman greeted Fenris as “Leto”, and the wonder in Fenris’ voice as he spoke of memories, described them, was beautiful.

A grey voice cut through all conversations. Men at a number of tables stood, drawing weapons, threatening. Hawke’s voice, deep and clear, responding to the sexual insinuation from Danarius, denying ownership of any part of Fenris by anyone but Fenris. Fenris’ sister pleading that she had no choice, that the Blood Mage was going to make her a Magister. Sebastian realized with a sickening contraction of his heart that Varania was a blood mage as well. Death, then, for others, and enslavement for his friend unless they stood by Fenris. That familiar smell of blood rising as the men at the tables shifted to attack, while Danarius spun magic from in front. Isabela appeared behind a man with her named daggers sunk to the hilt in his back. Anders’ magic stroked past Sebastian and the Chantry brother could imagine it curling around Hawke and Fenris to strengthen, heal, and connect them all.

Fenris struggled with himself. Sebastian shot two of Danarius’ men as they moved toward the Elvhen’s back. the bearlike Tevene fighter crashing past him with one of Sebastian’s goose feather fletching on arrows sticking out of an eye socket woke Fenris from his stupor. The lyrium brands lit, the Mercy blade was pulled, and Fenris swerved to take on one of the mercenaries. Hawke, of course, was trying to power his way past Danarius’ magic shielding. Danarius brought his own undead, and Sebastian found himself fighting to protect Varania from their indiscriminate destruction. A bow was next to useless in the close quarters of the Hanged Man. Sebastian resorted to twin daggers tossed to him by Isabela. 

Vines twined up the staircase behind Danarius, attempted to climb his body, hold him. Merrill and her Keeper magic. Bianca sounded, missing the Blood Mage, but puncturing eye after eye of his minions. Possibly the brain was damaged. Why would that matter with a dead body? Aveline was not here, nor Bethany who was ‘safe’ in the Gallows, but the rest of them fought well as a team. Breathing out a prayer, that breath harsh and panting, Sebastian guarded Fenris’ sister with his body, with his life. She did nothing but hide from the onslaught. Three waves, minions first, most easily destroyed, then the dead, then finally and harder still the spirits, demons and shades from the Fade. Daggers were of little use against those last, but a fireball dispersed the only one to get through his guard. Anders, of course, for Merrill was not of much use with Primary Magics, and as a Blood Mage she could not Heal. Sebastian gave a prayer of thanks for Anders, yet again.

Ears ringing in the silence, Sebastian watched Fenris stalk over to his former master. The Chantry brother could not bring himself to dispute Fenris’ right to put a fist through the evil man’s chest, grasping the empty heart, it was certainly vacant of any loving emotions, and ripping it, crushing, and dropping the dying flesh of the blood mage on the ground with a wet thud. “You,” Fenris was enraged as he approached his shrinking sister, “You led him here!”

Sebastian knew that he and Anders would have stopped the Elvhen, would never have allowed Fenris to destroy her, and himself in the bargain, but Hawke put a gentle hand on their friend, stopped him. There was a snarl, a defensive exchange from the embittered sister, and Varania ran. Sebastian looked over to see Merrill following after. Then Fenris spoke, drawing Sebastian’s attention back, "I thought that discovering my past would bring a sense of belonging…but I was wrong. Magic has tainted that too … I am alone,” it was tired, defeated, and aimed at both Hawke and one other.

Even with Anders behind him, Sebastian could feel the recoil, he could certainly watch the sadness on Hawke’s face as he looked pointedly to all who had fought at the Elvhen’s back. Fenris, “I have to get out of here,” shoved past and escaped out the door, leaving them all behind. 

Aveline and her guards arrived close after, taking statements, supervising the disposition of the bodies. Templars were summoned and arrived to investigate as well. Hawke, Varric, Anders and Sebastian sat in Varric’s suite, door open and hidden in plain sight and did not speak. Norah brought drinks, ale for Hawke and Varric, water for Anders, and uiskie for Sebastian. Anders reached to the tray as it was set down, clipped the tumbler of golden liquor before Sebastian’s quick fingers could manage to do so, and threw the drink down his throat. The thick bar glass trembled slightly in that long, thin hand, before turning the tumbler upside down on the Norah’s tray. The bar maid looked startled, placed the pitcher of ale and mugs, the glass of water, then took the tray and left. Hawke sighed, “Well, we should have expected that reaction. Just as when Hadriana was here. He said, ‘What has magic touched that it does not spoil?’ Took him two days to get over his snit then.”

Varric drank deep, “Broody is nothing if not predictable.”

Anders was silent still.

Sebastian drank the water. “What will Merrill do? With Varania?”

“I hope she will keep her safe. Noon in Lowtown is not a dangerous time, relatively speaking,” Hawke said thoughtfully, “But Varania will have nowhere to go without Danarius leading. Merrill will see that she causes no trouble, as well, as keeping her safe for now.”

Sebastian sighed, blood mage watching over blood mage. A big burly fighter watching over them both. And Fenris. And Sebastian. Thank the Maker for Hawke, for all his lack of convention. The archer wanted to put his head on the table, which, being Varric’s table would be clean enough. A chair scraped beside him. Anders stood, “I need to get back to the clinic.”

Hawke looked up and winced. “Anders?”

“Hawke,” it was slightly sarcastic.

Hawke swallowed, “Are you...”

It was cut off, “I’m alright. Glad the bastard’s dead. He deserved worse. But it looks as though the Templars are gone. So I am free,” that was accented, “to leave.”

Hawke nodded, then looked at Sebastian. He heard Anders, “Sebastian should stay here. Before I open the clinic back up I would like to be alone. For a bit.”

Whatever Hawke had seen in Anders’ face, Sebastian looking up and over his shoulder could find only a blank. Catching his eyes was impossible, but Sebastian nodded his assent. “I will be back by dinner time.” There was a nod, and then Anders was gone.


	37. Troubled Waters

Sebastian let himself in through the enormous faded wooden doors of the clinic to find echoing, enclosed darkness. Anders had not opened the clinic. 

Reaching to the left and down Sebastian’s fingers tapped, then closed on the brass ring at the top of the spare lantern. There wasn’t any sound, save scrabbling for the lantern, the scraping search for sulphur sticks in a belt pouch. A scratch and the flare of light were too too loud in the emptiness. Moving the flame to a trimmed wick, shutting the glass, Sebastian watched the clinic appear out of the blackness. 

Anders was seated in Sebastian’s usual battered wooden chair, leant against the stone pillar by the work table, eyes closed, breathing steady, hands folded in his lap. The mage’s eyes opened, a frosty blue stare directed at Sebastian with his lamp. A blink and the blue was gone, replaced by Anders’ tired brown.

“Anders?” it was calm, concerned.

How easily that voice came to him, even now, calming, that trained voice, second nature, taking command, in control. Sebastian did not feel in control. A touch of panic lingered as he watched the sad tired face before him.

Sebastian tried again, “You didn’t open the clinic?”

“It,” Anders voice came out exhausted, “did not seem worth it.”’

Putting the lantern on the scrubbed and scarred wooden table top, the Chantry brother knelt at Anders’ booted feet, carefully placing a hand to the mage’s arm. “What did Hawke see in your face, Anders?” Sebastian wondered out loud.

Anders eyes sharpened and Sebastian’s blue met those brown sparks. “When you stood to leave Varric’s?” it was clarification, but Sebastian did not think there was any need. 

“Don’t know what Hawke thought he saw,” Anders closed his eyes, face creased as in pain, and dropped his head back against the pillar.

There was a piece of scraped parchment on the table by the lamp, an iron pen and glass bottle of ink with it. A palimpset, used over and over. Now it contained a short list. Sela petrae. Drakestone. Proportions. “Anders, what is this?” the writing was Anders’ and must have been written in the dark, for all that it was neat and precise. 

Did Justice have a different hand from Anders? “It’s an alchemical formula, Sebastian,” Anders did not open his eyes or move, his voice still tired.

Pulling teeth, “What does it do?”

“I suppose the simplest thing to say would be that it is to separate Justice and myself. It’s a catalyst to change. I plan to ask Hawke for help in collecting the ingredients. Anything else I can tell you about it?” Anders’ faint sarcasm echoed his words to Hawke at the Hanged Man.

“It isn’t magic,” this was not a question, it was Sebastian speaking softly to himself.

Anders responded in any case, “No.”

Sebastian gave him a moment before, “Anders, what are you feeling right now?”

It was not what Anders had been expecting. Sebastian watched him, opening his eyes and looking directly at the the Chantry brother, “What do you mean?”

“I,” Sebastian said offhandedly, “Am feeling dismissed.”

“Was I dismissive?” Anders asked surprised, “I suppose it could have been taken that way.”

“Dismissed by Fenris,” Sebastian was short.

Wariness, “Really?”

Sebastian cocked his head, “Really. Why are you not feeling that way? He was even more dismissive of magic.”

The blank face that Anders presented was what Sebastian thought of as his reaction to Templars. “Fenris was as Fenris always is. Fenris is never going to change.”

“What you mean by that, Anders?” Sebastian mused, “I can see that you are upset by what he said. Hawke knew it too.”

A flicker of anger passed over the blankness, “I think you know exactly what I mean.”

Sebastian nodded, a cue that he had heard Anders, not agreement, “I won’t know exactly unless you explain it to me.”

“Nothing is changing here, Sebastian. Nothing will change for any of you short of a Blight or some other cataclysm. It’s too easy to resort back to long held angers and prejudices than to realize that you, and Fenris, and the Templars, and the Chantry are wrong,” there was a red flicker in the brown of Anders’ eyes.

Sebastian picked his way through a trapped corridor, “You believe that I have learned nothing in the time I have spent with you? That none of my views have changed? And that I have had no effect on you and your views?”

“Not in any substantial way, no. Obviously not for Fenris either. He will always equate magic and mages with Danarius. You heard him. Magic is a Taint,” and there it was.

“And Fenris, whom you have called a friend, has thrown that taint into your teeth, is that it?” little enough for Sebastian, but obviously strongly telling for the apostate.

Anders’ mouth opened, but whatever he had to say choked in his throat. Weakly he got out, “Tainted by magic and all? Why should that bother me?”

Sebastian snorted, “Because you were ‘already Tainted’ with the Blight to become a Grey Warden. And it bothers you.”

The look Anders shot him was sharp, “What are you saying?” the words were knife edged as well.

Sebastian looked up at the mage, remembering his own initial reaction to Merrill’s revelation. Hand still on the Mage’s arm he sighed, “Anders, I know that you were Blighted to become a Grey Warden. You took on the Taint and mastered it.”

Anders jerked, “What are you saying? What do you mean? Where did you hear that?”

“Merrill. Keepers, or at least Marethari does, know how the Grey Wardens are made. I have not told anyone else,” Sebastian wished the calm voice he was using would reassure Anders.

“When?” and then at Sebastian’s questioning look, “When did Merrill tell you?”

“A month ago, more or less. I didn’t mark the occasion, Anders, other than that Merrill went out of her way to confront me.

No, I suppose confront is not the word,” Sebastian laughed.

Anders startled, then asked thoughtfully, “Was that the day we came back from the Bone Pit and you were arguing about omnipotence and omniscience?”

A nod from Sebastian. Anders went on, “And you said nothing about this to me? You’ve worked with me side by side since?

Sebastian didn’t you have any questions?”

In exasperation Sebastian said heatedly, “Of course I have questions! Questions you are not free to answer. I won’t put you in a bad position.”

Anders began to laugh, a painful high pitched wheeze, “a bad position?”

Sebastian tightened his grip on Anders’ arm, but the mage pulled away to drop his head into twitching hands. The pained sound did not so much stop as fade away. Sebastian knelt up, hand moving to Anders’ shoulder. The silence went on, occasionally broken by a faint distant shout or noise, a flare from time to time of the lantern wick.

“Sebastian,” it was muffled by Anders’ hands on his face, “what are we doing?”

“in general? At the moment? With our lives?” Sebastian was gentle, “All of humanity or just you and me, Anders?”

Anders sat up, dropping hands to his knees. Looking at Sebastian’s hand on his shoulder, “Doesn’t it bother you?”

Sebastian thought about it. No lies, he decided. “When Merrill told me,” slowly, “I was in a panic.

How did you feel? When you discovered what you had to do to become a Grey Warden?”

“I wanted to vomit. Literally. You too?” and received Sebastian’s nod, “Well for me, I could feel the darkspawn blood on my tongue. Darkspawn blood, lyrium, and worse, Sebastian.

Then passing out. The bastards let me drop and when I woke up,” the voice became stronger, “I was bruised all over in addition to being Tainted!

Didn’t have a choice. It was that or hang, as I believe I told you. Closest to freedom that I ever got.”

Sebastian said quietly, “You feel trapped here. What Fenris said made you feel even more gaoled.”

Anders looked up into the darkness of the ceiling, “Sebastian, Fenris’ own sister is a mage.

He will never forgive me for that.”

“You think he will blame you for the fact that his sister is a mage?” Sebastian was not following.

“Fenris will blame every mage for the fact that his sister is Tainted,” Anders was reasonable.

Sebastian had to think of a response, “Do you believe that I blame you for Ostea?”

Anders looked at him in surprise, “You said her name.”

“I’m healing,” Sebastian shrugged, “Do you think I blame you for what she did?”.

“No,” Anders was barely audible.

“No,” Sebastian agreed, “I healed. Fenris will heal. The person I am worried about is you, Anders.”

“Me?” Anders responded in confusion.

“This, though,” Sebastian’s long fingers, still calloused from the bowstring, tapped on the piece of parchment, “Are you serious about separating from Justice? What will happen to Justice if you separate?”

Anders was staring at him, “What? What do you mean?”

“Anders,” Sebastian reminded him gently, “One of the reasons you took Justice was because you were concerned about him. If you use this formula and separate yourself from him, where will he go?”

“You don’t like Justice,” Anders said slowly.

“It matters to you. That makes it important to me,” Sebastian was serious.

Watching him Anders said, “Justice will be fine with whatever happens.”

Sebastian looked troubled. Shaking his head, Sebastian closed that line of discussion to open another. “Anders?” there was a question in his voice, “Why did Fenris’ words upset you? Your reaction surprised me. I would have expected sharp,” an obvious pause for word selection, “correction.”

Anders sighed. Was it relief at the change of subject, or the new question? “What does it say about me? That you would expect me to bicker with Fenris instead of offering support?”

At Sebastian’s quick denial Anders waved it off, “I had placed much on Fenris’ and my adversarial relationship changing. Much hope. Much personal investment.

Justice feels that what I have done is in vain so long as anyone stands against us.”

Sebastian spoke low, quiet, “Is that why you stopped seeing Elthina?”

A deep sigh, “No. and Yes. Elthina has not given me a sign that the Gallows presence has decreased. I was concerned, at first, that Meredith might take action against the Grand Cleric.

Elthina and I still do not agree on increased rights for mages. Or even,” Anders’ discontent bled through, “for basic human rights.”

“That last,” Sebastian shook his head, “Does not sound like Elthina.”

“Sebastian,” Anders kept his tone even with an obvious effort, “Mages in the Gallows may not marry. They may not have families. Children are separated from parents. Do you have any idea how damaging that is?

Mages are brought up believing that they are cursed for something that is inherant.”

Sebastian bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Problematic,” he said at last, ”and not looking at the risk of Kirkwall itself.”

“It’s everywhere, Sebastian,” Anders chided, “not just Kirkwall.

Yes, Kirkwall is a problem beyond mages’ rights. A woman becomes an abomination because she can’t feed her children and the Chantry won’t help and Meredith hounds her?”

Evelina was a sore point. Sebastian knew her. He knew Cricket and Walter and the others. “I dinna how to help them,” Sebastian admitted, “I’d planned on speaking to Elthina about it. Whatever we come up with will be hard. and it will be slow.”

“Slow will not be an option for very much longer,” Anders voice had a slight rumble behind the rock hard tone.

“What do you mean?” immediate, and Sebastian hoped not reflecting the measure of panic working it’s way through his mind.

“Change is coming,” and Justice’s reverberation was echoed in the swirling blue and red of Anders’ eyes.

Sebastian took a breath, “Change is coming. But change for it’s own sake will be useless if it destroys the people who are supposed to benefit from it.”

“Sacrifices are required,” was there more red than blue?

“Sacrifices?" that his voice was not cracking was good as Sebastian went on firmly, “Sacrifice must be made by the individual. Made with free and informed consent, not decided by someone else for another’s own good. 

Otherwise it is the equivalent of blood magic. The spilling of blood for someone else’s ideal. It is everything you hate about the Chantry, Anders.”

The air was swirling with energy, static raising the hair on both of their heads and bodies, Anders’ tie flying into the shadows. Sebastian felt sound pressing into his ears, into his head. His teeth ached. The pressure grew.

Through this all came Anders voice. That teasing slyness, with no hint of Justice or Vengeance, but tired, almost aching with exhaustion, “And this is why we can not destroy the Chantry.

Because we will become their evil. The ends do not justify the means.”

Sharp, immediate, they were gone. Anders slumped, falling forward onto Sebastian who was almost knocked to the ground. Pushing up, holding the dead weight of the mage, Sebastian concentrated on settling the man into the tipping wooden chair instead of the words. They circled relentlessly in his screaming mind. “Destroy the Chantry.”

Breathing heavily, Sebastian left his hand on Anders’ shoulder until he was certain the mage would not fall. Standing in the near darkness, he stood, looking down with those quiet, tired words still moving in his head.


	38. Respite

Anders opened sticky eyes, not expecting anything at all. The Fade, perhaps. The Void? He blinked to clear the blur. Stretched out on his cot in the back of the clinic, which was well lit now, the curtain to the living quarters drawn back. The Healer could feel the raised stitchery of his mother’s pillow under his aching head. Vision was blocked. An arm under his shoulders raised them, a cup, warm, smelling of black tea and an awful amount of honey, was put to his lips.

“Drink,” he was firmly reminded.

Honeyed tea caused his tongue to curl and stomach to growl and then lurch sideways. Swallowing the mouthful without coughing he asked, “Why am I alive?”

“Because you fought them,” Sebastian, of course Sebastian, and his Starkhaven brogue was strong, “and because they left.”

“Not,” too much saliva now, Anders swallowed, “for good.”

Sebastian put the cup to his mouth again, “No. I thought not.”

Anders drank to empty the cup, only to find another lifted to his lips, cold water with the bitter taste of slippery elm bark. Sebastian fed it to him slowly.

“How long?” Sebastian asked him.

Anders blanked. It must have showed in his expression. “How long have they been at you to destroy the Chantry?” that calm voice that was Sebastian’s talent.

“They? Justice. He wishes to start a war. The only element keeping Meredith in check is,” and was interrupted by Sebastian’s quiet, “Elthina.”

“Yes,” was there any point in denying it?

Sebastian surprised Anders, “Justice is not alone. Vengeance is there as well.”

“No,” protested the mage, “Vengeance is Justice. I have corrupted him.”

“Your eyes,” commented Sebastian wryly, “were both red and blue.”

“Oh,” Anders realized that he did not know what the others saw when Justice came out.

“It is idiocy, Anders,” Sebastian was serious, “To expect that killing Elthina would support your cause. Or further it.”

Anders hunched forward, clawing fingers through his unbound hair, “I know. I … just... I have never been good at waiting. I have no patience. And how much is me anymore? I can not tell where I end and Vengeance begins.”

“And to draw Hawke into it?” a touch of anger, “What is this?” and the parchment was waved in front of him, “Gaatlok?”

“No, something the Dwarves invented. The ones at Vigil’s Keep. I didn’t pay much attention to it, but Justice must have learned how to make it,” Anders’ voice wobbled.

Anders could hear Sebastian’s deep breath, “Would the explosion at the Chantry have killed you? Was that how you were separating from Justice?”

Anders swallowed, “Justice, no, Vengeance believed that Hawke would execute us for the crime. He is the Champion of Kirkwall, after all. There would be justice and vengeance both. Not suicide.”

A very angry tone, “Vengeance would have punished Hawke by making him kill you. How could you agree to that, Anders?”

It was a different view of the plan. “Because I’m weak,” Anders said bitterly, “Have I not heard that enough from Fenris?”

“Don’t blame this on Fenris!” snapped Sebastian.

“Fine then,” the exhausted voice had returned, “Because I am weak. Because death would have been an escape. I was running away. Again.”

“Death, your death,” Sebastian said angrily, “And at Hawk’s own hands would have destroyed Hawke. It would have destroyed your Mage Underground for certain. It would have hurt every one of us who care for you, and placed us in untenable, un-winnable positions. It would have allowed Meredith to play the righteous hero and slaughter every mage in the Gallows.”

“They would have fought. Fought back, finally,” Anders muttered.

“Anders, this is Kirkwall. What do desperate mages do in Kirkwall?” Sebastian ground out, then without waiting for response, “Blood Magic. Abomination. Summoning demons, and breaching the veil,” at least he thought ‘veil’ was the correct word.

Anders began to shudder. Control of his body was not within his capabilities. Sebastian brought the basin up just in time for the flood of tea, honey, that afternoon’s whiskey and bile to empty into it.

“What have I done?” Anders moaned as Sebastian wiped his face, then brought the cool water back for him to rinse a foul tasting mouth.

“Nothing, yet,” commented Sebastian, “And I dearly hope nothing like this in the future.

Now, lie down and get some sleep. I need to think.”

When Anders woke, it was to the sound of voices in the clinic. Sitting up brought a spinning head, his stomach seemed to be hungry, but stable. Anders belched the unhappy release of gas from a vomitous gut, then relief. Good. Still in his boots, he’d slept in his tunic and trousers. Not an unfamiliar feeling. Standing he lurched to push on the held back drape. Beyond it, seated at a table and drinking from a mug with Sebastian was Stigs. “Did,” his voice sounded cobwebbed, “You give Stigs his mother’s potion?”

Stigs smiled his toothless grin, “Yah, and Mother sent you pasties. Not rat. She got venison in a barter deal. Knew you’d like it.”

Anders’ stomach answered with a growl that made Stigs give out a booming laugh for someone so small. Sebastian was pouring steaming water into a mug for him, pausing with the honey spoon at Anders’ wave of a hand, “Not so much honey, please, Sebastian. I am not a bear.”

Sebastian gave him a tight smile, “He says as he emerges from his cave.”

Yes. Well. “Stigs, would you be able to take a note to Elthina for me?”

“Yah,” Stigs nodded enthusiastically, “Brother Sebastian said you might want to send somewhat.”

A deep sigh. Yes. Then. Anders took the mug of hot peppermint tea, not overly sweet, and made his way to the desk, his pen and inkwell restored to it from the table, and thought. Sipping from the mug while scribbling on a scrap of old paper, he sanded the slip of document, then handed it to Sebastian, not Stigs.

Sebastian looked at him, then down at the fragment of paper, “Elthina. I have not heard from you for some time. I have been concerned. I am in need of confession.”

Nodding, the Chantry brother folded it, and handed it to Stigs. “Thank you,” was directed to them both.

Once Stigs was gone the enormous gulf of silence stretched between them. Sebastian seemed to come to a decision and pulled a chair backwards over to the desk, sitting astride it he started, “You said that you have no patience. Yet you have been unfailingly persistent, not only with me, but with all of your patients.

Anders sputtered and started to laugh. Sebastian looked blankly at the man, replaying what he had said. “Maker, Anders, punning is the lowest form of humor!”

“You made the pun, not I,” the laughter sounded relieved, and Sebastian had to smile in response.

“It was inadvertent,” a heavy, put upon sigh, “Be that as it may,” a severe look made the laughter stronger, “All right, get it out of your system.”

There was an attempt to rein it in, then a snicker, a snort, and finally laughter outright that made Sebastian smile. It was not the tight smile of earlier, but genuine, and settled Anders. Taking his own deep breath the mage urged, “You said that you think I am a patient man?”

“I do,” was the response, “But Justice is not. Humans are suited to dealing with life day to day, delaying, waiting and working for what they want. Spirits and demons are not known for this, are they?”

Anders did not want to admit that Sebastian had a point. He did not want to, but in fairness …, “Yes, I mean, no, they are not. When I met Justice he was in front of a gated wall urging the townsfolk to attack a demon possessed blood mage.”

“How can we show Justice that what you are doing is to the good?” Sebastian asked.

That was something to think about. “And how to include Hawke and your friends in the discussion,” Sebastian had reached for his calm voice again.

“Why?” Anders asked, intrigued and not a little frightened, “Why would I drag them into this?”

“Because they are already involved, Anders. And because they care. And finally, because they may have some insight that you and I do not,” carefully said, it would not do to be patronizing.

“Ha! I don’t suppose that one of them will have a startlingly quick and efficient way to fix everything?” Anders mocked lightly.

“Ha!” Sebastian mocked right back, “It is easy to hate and it is difficult to love. This is how the whole scheme of things works. All good things are difficult to achieve and bad things are very easy to get” 

Anders rolled eyes that no longer looked quite as fatigued, “Sounds familiar. Not the Chant, though. Who said it?”

“Orlesian philosopher. Rene Descartes. Banned by the Chantry,” Sebastian smiled at the look on Anders’ face.

“The one who said, ‘If the Maker were not real, man would have to invent Him’?” Anders realized that shock was not a good sound for him.

“The very same. Which is, of course, why he was banned by the Chantry. How did you hear of him? Or is this one of those rebellion pieces where you sought out banned materials?” Sebastian managed a face of pious wonder.

“Yes, yes yes,” Anders waved his hand in the air, “I read every banned book in the tower, and a few at Vigil’s Keep. That particular author’s work I stole from The Architect’s lair. You do not need to worry about whom the Architect actually is. Enemy of the Grey Wardens.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded. A soft hesitant knock sounded on the wood of the clinic doors. If they’d been speaking, it might have gone unnoticed. ‘We’re cloooooosed,” Anders yelled in the general direction of the doubled doors.

Looking at Sebastian the Healer made a face, “Have you ever heard of a medical emergency knocking so hesitantly?”

Sebastian had not, no. Panicked, frantic, but never timorous. That being though, the next bang on the thick wood barring entrance was louder and certainly more authoritative. The mumbled curse, an Anders went to the door was too indistinct for Sebastian to make out. It sounded vaguely like ‘The Bride”’s name and ‘knicker weasels’ but that couldn’t be right.

The knock had come from the left hand door. Anders opened the right and poked his head around the corner. Sebastian’s momentary flash of a Templar sword or smite connected with that tousled blonde head caused the Chantry Brother to flinch.

“Fenris?’ Anders sounded unflatteringly surprised,.

“Mage?” Sebastian could hear Fenris deep voiced response, “I had assumed our reading lesson would go on as scheduled.”

“Oh!” Anders opened the slab of wood wide, ‘Yes! please come in!”

Manners are ingrained in us for a reason. They take us through a situation without thought. Sebastian cocked his head and called, “Why did you not just enter, Fenris? Why knock?”

The Elvhen paused as Anders closed and re-barred the door. Shaking the fringe of white hair straggled into his eyes, Fenris rumbled, “It seemed appropriate.”

Fenris was ill at ease. That was obvious from his stance, the bare toes digging into the clinic floor, and refusal to meet Anders or Sebastian’s eyes. Anders sighed, shoulders lifted as they shed a great weight. ”Yes, well, come on, Fenris.

Sebastian? Would you make us all some tea?” and mage and Elvhen moved to join him in the back of the clinic.

Sebastian, looking sideways saw a spark in Anders’ eye as he folded long fingered hands on the small table now situated between the human man and the elf. “What,” Anders’ voice would not have melted butter, “would you like to work on today, Fenris?”

The warrior blew out an expressive gust of breath, the downy white bangs lifting from his dark forehead. Slanting his eyes across Anders’ face and off to the right, Fenris spoke, “I would learn how to write a letter.”

Anders blinked, “Alright. We’ve worked on those before.”

“Of Apology,” Fenris finished.

That nonplussed Anders. Sebastian smiled as he readied another pot of peppermint. Anders opened his mouth, but the words stilled when Fenris raised a hand between them.

Swallowing, the Elvhen looked to meet the ambers eyes of the human mage, “I was not... I must have seemed ungrateful yesterday. That is far from the truth.

You and Hawke and Sebastian were there to help, to support me. You helped me to destroy Danarius’ threat.

You were there for me,” that last word was emphasized, “Thank you.

And if ever you need me, I will be there.”

Silence. The look on Anders’ face was of a man stricken by lightning. Clearing throat and continuing to meet the green eyes across the table, he managed “You are always welcome, Fenris,” then in a less solemn tone, “I’m glad the bastard’s dead.”

Fenris laughed quietly. “As am I,” he agreed.

Now the weight was lifted from Fenris, as he continued, “I would like to work on a letter to say as much to Hawke as well.”

Anders nodded. He hesitated, said, “Fenris, ...’ opened his mouth to continue and was struck by Sebastian standing behind Fenris and shaking his head slightly. 

To the questioning eyebrows of the Elf below Sebastian’s smiling face, Anders grinned, “An apology note from one Free Man to another.”


	39. Tranquility

“Well, Anders,” the Grand Cleric cleared her throat, “You have frightened me.”

Anders bowed his head,saying nothing. Elthina went on, “I have two questions. Why have you told me this? Was it something Sebastian required of you?”

The mage flinched, unseen by the Grand Cleric, separated as they were in the booths of the confessional. “No. Sebastian did not... I come here freely, admitting my fault, my own fault, my own most grievous fault.”

Anders heard a huff of surprise, and then was surprised himself by laughter. “Oh, Anders, the Liturgy of Penance?

It truly does assist us when we do not know what to say.”

“Elthina, I have just admitted to you that I planned on destroying the Kirkwall chantry, and killing you. How can you laugh?” Anders was exasperated.

The Grand Cleric sighed out of the laughter. “Anders, do you think that you alone have thought of, and confessed to destruction and murder?” it was patient, chiding, “Though, certainly, when most are angry with me they generally use someone else as a confessor. Unless they are seeking to manipulate me.

I am not suggesting that you are manipulating. I understand your confession to be genuine.”

Anders’ stun was obvious, though she could not see his face, could only see a shadow through the grill. “Why would?” but he did not finish as Elthina went on, “I am a High Official of the Church. I do have enemies, or those who believe themselves to be such.

It is not only mages who are frustrated with my policies. You must remember Revered Mother Petrice?”

Anders, contradictory as most humans, felt a spurt of rage at anyone who would dare to be angry at this woman. His common sense caught up and the mage was grateful for the wooden carvings between them. The heated flush of embarrassment swept over him. His pause was broken when Elthina cleared her throat again, “My second question?” asking his permission to go on.

Confusion, hadn’t she asked two already? Then assent. Elthina wanted to know, “What went on between you after Sebastian stopped you?”

Stuttering, Anders got out, “He took care of me.

I asked him why I was still alive. Sebastian said it was because I fought them. And they were gone.”

“For now,” murmured Elthina.

“Yes,” Anders strove not to bleed emotion into his voice, “He quoted an Orlesian philosopher.”

“Yes, Sebastian is fond of his philosophers. ‘That which does not kill us makes us stronger’? No, wait. That was a native of the Anderfels.

Was it, ‘All good things are difficult to achieve and bad things are very easy to get’?” Elthina quoted.

“Yes, Rene Descartes,” Anders agreed.

The mage could picture Elthina nodding slowly, “I think, therefore I am.”

“I didn’t know that one,” Anders admitted.

There was creaking, Elthina leaning back against the far wall of the confessional, “In Sebastian’s wild days he used to misquote it. ‘I drink, therefore I am’.”

Anders choked on the laugh he was unable to contain. “I beg your pardon, your Grace.”

Another quick huff of laughter, then more soberly, “We must think about this, Anders.

Obviously I do not wish to die. Even more, I do not want to die by your hand. My removal from the politics here will not be advantageous to either side. It would dangerously unbalance the status quo, without providing benefit to anyone. I believe, furthermore, that it would add to the elimination of Kirkwall, caught between two warring powers. With what you have told me in the past, such an influx of death, blood, terror, and pain might well cause an effect that would be catastrophic.

That is in addition to the loss of Chantry workers. Cleaners, gardeners, cooks, Rat Catchers, and their families would become involved.”

Stig! Stig’s mother! Anders’ head banged against the flat wooden panel behind. Maker, what had he been going to do? It was one thing to destroy, no, be honest, to murder, to give up in sacrifice all of those faceless, safely anonymous people. A mouth full of thick syrupy saliva, prelude to vomiting, Anders tried to keep his stomach under control.

Close. Enclosed. This small wooden closet was a trap. Anders opened it, the tiny paneled door, like a cupboard, really. It had been years since he was small enough to hide in cupboards, laughing silently as the Templars searched for him. Back when a cramped, controlled space was a comfort and not a terror. Anders looked out across the marble hallway of the sanctuary. Cool air flowed through the gap. Panting, trying to get breathing under control. 

“Anders?” Elthina was concerned, he could hear that, “May I help you? Do you need me to get help?”

Not ‘can I help you?’ No. What type of help would Elthina be able to get for him here? Sebastian was at the Clinic, and he was the first person that came to mind. “I could call for Hawke, Anders. Would that help?”

“No,” it was croaked, “No. Just. I need a moment, Your Grace.”

It was a mercy that they were not disturbed. Or perhaps Elthina had made it clear that she was not to be interrupted, and for a wonder was not being second guessed. With the door open Anders could hear the normal life of the Chantry. The soft sound of the Chant of Light being sung quietly in the background, movement in and out by worshippers, quiet discussion throughout the echoing main Sanctuary of the castle sized building. A soft soprano came quietly from the other claustrophobic cupboard of their confessional. It was not audible to anyone else, Anders thought. 

“Though all before me is shadow,

Yet shall the Maker be my guide.

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.

For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

Words of comfort certainly. Possibly also for Elthina, but clearly now meant for him. For Anders. His panting evened out, and the mage pulled the door to, leaning back against the wall and breathing slowly. “Thank you, Elthina,” when he was ready, “And now, I admit my sin. I repent of it. What penance would you give to me?”

...

Sebastian spent a good deal of time thinking over the past six months. Thinking, it was not always useful. He had been thinking about Thinking. There had been times the man wished that thought, feelings would just go away. Then Sebastian had gone with Hawke to the Gallows to see the Knight Captain. Anders frequently pointed out the increase in the Tranquil in the courtyard of the Gallows. He no longer accompanied Hawke in his trips there. This was the first time Sebastian had noticed the truth of that, and possibly only because of the events of the past week.

While Hawke bantered, Sebastian wandered about, speaking to person after person marked with the symbol of the Chantry sun. The Tranquil were unsettling at the best of times. Sebastian asked questions that were not polite. The blank countenances stared, blinking, but otherwise no reaction as the monotone voices gave their answers. No color. No emotions. No real sense of self. The more he asked, the greater his distress at the lack. There was nothing there, no personality, nothing. 

Anders swore that he would rather die than be made Tranquil. Sebastian could now see why. 

Thinking. He’d wished for the thinking to stop. He had been so wrong. Thinking was part of what made Sebastian what he was. The Tranquil were no longer themselves. It was not just the lack of emotion. There was no ‘self’ to them. They existed solely to be directed to tasks, servants. When Fenris had told Isabela about the drug the Qunari used to create mindless working bodies of those who refused to convert to the Qun Sebastian had felt ill. Tranquility was the same. Anders had been right. In this at least.

Sebastian would not wish to be made Tranquil either. The idea of Tranquility for Hawke, for Anders, for Varric, for Isabela or Merrill. The Tranquil had thought, obviously, but there was no creativity, no joy, no passion. Anders had said that the Tranquil brewed wonderful potions, tasty beer, and exquisite liquors. But those were not necessarily items that required passion if someone else had worked out the correct formulae. Sebastian knew that even the amount of rainfall in a given season could change the flavor of the uiskeba distilled from it. Even so, that could be factored in to a given equation. It required no joy in the making of it.

Danarius had said he would do this to Fenris. Fenris already had no memories, or few, and Danarius would have taken what he had away. Fenris, Sebastian remembered, had told him about Danarius. “He called me ‘Little Wolf’, told me I was beautiful. I did whatever Danarius desired, Sebastian.

Until Isabela I never had a choice. Where there is no choice, there can never be consent.”

Consent was required for much more than sex. Conversion was impossible without consent. Informed consent, not the threat of fire and the cold emptiness of The Void. Sacrifice could only be given with consent. Anders had told Sebastian of a girl who had begged for Tranquility, out of a sense of guilt, out of a desire to be free of ‘the curse of magic’, out of a need to be Other. Would this girl have felt that way without the Circle? If she had been raised in a loving home, where her talents were appreciated and nurtured? 

And yet. And yet. Mages living outside of the Tower would be in no better situation. There was even more danger and fear. There were tales of hedge mages who had been murdered when accused of cursing crops or causing spontaneous abortion in a milk cow. Accusation and sentence without trial. As Anders had been sentenced to death for the murders of Templars killed by Darkspawn.

What if the Circle were different? What if? and How?

There must be compromise. Yes. But some things were profoundly wrong. And with those things there should be no compromise.

Overall, Sebastian was at a loss over where to begin.

…

Sebastian’s thoughts were filled with doubt, gloom, and that feeling of being overwhelmed by an insurmountable task. Stepping from the ferry to the dock reserved for Gallows traffic did nothing to mitigate those emotions. Attack by a band of dock rats soon after was not helpful either. Sebastian fought without anger, and at the moment without the pity he normally felt for those who had so little. 

Begging off the Hanged Man with Hawke afterward, the Chantry brother found his feet pausing by the Chantry board that had brought Hawke into his life. He had missed the stairs down to Darktown, had passed through Lowtown and a good portion of Hightown to make his way here. Beyond rose the broad steps leading up to the Chantry, not as sizeable as the cathedrals in Orlais, but still massive. The way up called to him. Home. 

Not a home where he would be able to hide, to sing the Chant and fish for souls in the limited pool that this edifice drew in. Sebastian knew this was his home. It was right. The work he would have to, be forced to, or rather be drawn forcibly into was new and monumental. It needed to be done. Change was coming, and it would be a destructive change that might well contaminate all that the Chantry should stand for. Sebastian knew he would meet with resistance.

A pale face with white hair flashed before Sebastian’s internal vision, with thinned lips, and angry eyes. Revered Mother Patrice. The woman who had started what she saw as needed change behind Elthina’s back, and leading to her own death, the death of her Templar guard, and an escalation of hostilities by the Qunari. Poor Seamus. Caught up in that woman’s hatred. Pitiful Dumar, destroyed by his son’s desertion and death before the Qunari had ever laid blade to his throat.

What if what he was thinking about was wrong? What if he would make, not the same, but similar mistakes? No, Sebastian believed that the Maker was calling him to this. Nothing in the Chant said anything against providing mages with families, with education, with making their own basic decisions in life. Tranquility was not mentioned in the Chant. Unlike what malice the Revered Mother Petrice had planned. Sebastian was beginning to believe that Anders was correct when he correlated Tranquility with the practices of Blood Mages. 

There would be difficulties. Even if Elthina allowed him to this work, The Divine would not be happy about it. Many people in the Chantry organization would see his ideas as heresy, as a threat, contaminated by interaction with mages. This was not going to be an easy task.

Was Sebastian willing to become a martyr for this cause? Was he willing to sacrifice himself to it?

Bugger.


	40. Penance

A loud sharp crack, thick glass against flat wood. It was not the sound of shattering, of breakage, more of a slap on the surface. Sebastian bolted into the clinic expecting trouble. What he saw was Anders slamming his poultice ingredients around, muttering to himself. “Anders?” Sebastian assumed that the meeting with Elthina had not gone well.

The blonde mage looked up at Sebastian, glowered at him under expressive eyebrows, and growled at him in another language. Sebastian had heard the phrase ‘taken aback’, but he had never thought of it with reference to himself. He literally took a step back, not in fear, just with the force of Anders... discontent? Sebastian was surprised to see no sign of Justice or Vengeance.

The healer slammed the flask of lyrium in his hand onto the wooden table next to several others, gripped the edge of the table and ground out, “Sebastian. And of course you will ask. Do you want to know what Penance the Grand Cleric has assigned to me for my sin?”

“If you would like to tell me,” Sebastian said cautiously, coming further into the clinic, but maintaining his distance, “Though it really is none of my business.”

“It is truly Your Business, Brother Sebastian! Elthina has assigned me the penance of prayer,” the growl was not getting any better, if anything it was getting quieter and more angry.

Not the time for a joke. “Prayer?” Sebastian’s thoughts were not aligning, not giving him insight into what prayer Elthina would have given Anders to do, “Prayer for what?”

Another growl, “Not for what. For who. Whom.”

Oh. Sebastian nodded with his understanding. “She has told you to pray for your enemies.”

Anders grabbed a white porcelain bowl and pestle and began to grind the herbs within as if to eliminate them, or possibly his enemies, from existence. Sebastian took a breath and walked calmly, pulled up the mended stool, and sat down at the table to watch the Healer. “What,” there was no hesitation exactly, “did Justice say?”

Was it possible for the pestle to grind even more viciously? Sebastian waited. When the chopped elfroot had been rendered down into a sharp smelling green paste Anders paused. “Justice,” it was not the growl, if anything it was reluctant, “Does not think it is a bad idea.”

Sebastian blinked. Realizing his mouth was hanging open he closed it and repeated, “not a bad idea?”

“It is a penance, Sebastian, it is not meant to be easy,” Anders snapped.

Well, no, that was true. After a moment Anders went on, “Vengeance ordered me to refuse to do it.”

“You’ve discussed it with both of them, then? Before I even got here?” Sebastian did not so much feel relief, as he did a spark of wholly inappropriate laughter rising, “And the clinic hasn’t been destroyed?” and damnation, his accent was coming out strong.

The healer’s long, green stained hands paused from transferring the green goop to a larger mixing bowl. “Don’t try to make me laugh, Sebastian, it will not work,” Anders expression was mulish.

Sebastian admitted, “I am having a bit of trouble with Justice not flaming up in righteous indignation, Anders. I have no thought to making you laugh.”

Anders hands began to move again, competently and smoothly as he mixed in the ingredients for the healing poultices. Sebastian did not speak, just watched the flow of the process, something he had learned about in his time here. The background sounds of Darktown in the distance, the creak of stone moving around them, it was all that they heard until Anders was finished with the batch of poultices, heating wax to seal the packets before setting them aside for the wax to cool. 

Sebastian was content to wait. He had no idea what tack Anders might take about this, and was willing to let the man speak in his own time. There was no danger of the opposite happening. Anders was not the man to be silent for long. The verbal silence went on as Anders washed the equipment, cleaned the table, and put water on to brew tea.

“Sebastian,” Anders’ back was to him as the man fiddled with the brass tea kettle, “I do not see how I am to accomplish this penance. Not any more than I can give myself up to Meredith and Cullen, or return to any of the Circles.”

Sebastian could see that the mage’s hands were shaking. Standing, he went to fetch some pastries sent down by Orana, stacking them on a cracked plate that Anders refused to throw away. Bringing them back to the table as Anders poured the boiling water in to the pot to steep, Sebastian sat down and pushed the plate over to the mage.

“My understanding,” he began, “is that she has asked you to pray for them. Did she specify what you were to pray for?”

“No,” Anders stared at the plate as though it were a window out of Darktown.

“What do you wish to pray for, Anders?” Sebastian had an inkling.

At that Anders raised his head and looked Sebastian in the eyes, “Their spectacularly painful demise.”

It was as the Chantry brother had expected. Sebastian’s first thought was ‘says the Healer’, it was a reflex, but he kept it to himself. It was hypocritical in the extreme to judge Anders on this. The Templars and others who had caused so much damage to the man, Maker send them repentance for their sins, and a penance far worse than this poor soul’s.

“Eat something,” Sebastian nudged the plate closer to the man’s hand, “You’re shaking.”

Anders raised an eyebrow at the response, “Are you taking lessons from Orana?”

Sebastian reached forward himself and took a pastry, smelling of cinnamon, and studded with currants and nuts, “Yes. Orana knows what she is doing in this regard.”

With an impatient sigh the mage picked one out at random and took a small bite. That turned into a second, larger bite, and soon the pastry had disappeared. Sebastian poured the tea, black this time, into mugs for each of them, adding no sweetener. Anders had moved to a second piece, and it was in no time that the cracked pottery plate was cleaned even of crumbs. The tea went down more slowly, it was still very hot.

The dark amber of Anders’ eyes looked over the worn plain brown pottery of his mug of tea, narrowed, trying to read Sebastian. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

“I am thinking that you have an idea of,” and then Sebastian sighed, “What do you think that Elthina was trying to do with this penance?”

Anders was still watching him, “You don’t think that this is one of Elthina’s impossible penances that she knows I won’t do. She knows I will never return to the Circle.”

Sebastian shook his head, “No. I do not think that what she has assigned you is impossible, or deadly to you.”

“Aaand the point is not for me to pray to the Maker that they freeze in the Void or burn in the Archdemon’s fire?” Anders mocked.

“How would that be a penance?” Sebastian asked gently, “How would that help you?”

Laughter, bitter, cold, “Just the thought of it makes me giddy. They would harm mage children no more. Mage women, no longer raped or forced to give up their children, sometimes Templar children, at birth. All mages allowed to live and love and experience life outside of the tower. All of that a little special something to pray for to our absent Maker hiding in the Fade?”

“How would that help you?” Sebastian asked.

“What? If those Templars and Chantry people were burnt by dragonfire?” Anders appeared to give it a second’s thought, “I would be heart warmed.”

Sebastian blinked, “Is that why Vengeance burns red?” he asked, “Instead of Justice’s blue?”

It stopped the mage. “Vengeance burns red? You told me that, didn’t you?”

Sebastian nodded. Anders put his head into hands that no longer trembled, “I made him that way, didn’t I?”

Another nod. “This is about me, isn’t it? It’s not about praying and expecting the Maker to intercede. We know he doesn’t do that, in spite of a good many people saying he sends plagues and curses and blessings,” Anders walked through the pathway, “Just as when you and I spoke about Ostea. About the Maker not punishing you by putting you into the hands of a Blood Mage.”

Sebastian did not smile, at Anders’ understanding. Healing he was, but not completely healed. Possibly never completely healed. And Anders’ pathway was not an easy one to walk. Sebastian said, “Your anger?”

“Corrupted Justice. He is not able to manage being human. I,” that last was emphasized, “Am not able to handle being human.”

“Part of being human is anger,” Sebastian pointed out.

Anders closed his eyes, “And dealing with it. And letting it go before it becomes an obsession.”

No smile, nodding again.

“Sebastian, I can not pray for their redemption. I do not believe they will take advantage of that to begin with. I can only pray that they will miss their targets, and that their victims will be healed. It is the best that I can do,” Anders’ eyes closed in pain.

Sebastian cleared his throat, “Perhaps it would help to write it out?”

“Perhaps,” and Anders nodded now, at Sebastian as he fetched pen, ink, and paper.

…

Elthina bent her head and prayed, “Andraste, Bride of the Maker, and Maker, creator of all, I am so very frightened.

Give me strength, but not the craving for power. Give me purpose, that I may not be swayed by either of these so passionate sides from what I believe to be Right and following in the path that you have sent me through the Chant of Light. Give me understanding of what is the correct path. Give me the words, so that I may heal these wounds in Kirkwall, and care for the flock that I have been called to serve.

Take my fear and give me courage, so that I will not run from this test that you have sent me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dragon Age System has a different series of beliefs from the Christian religion. Christianity believes, "Seek and ye shall find, knock and the door shall be opened, ask and it shall be given".
> 
> Thedas follows a religion wherein the Maker is Absent, and therefore asking him for things is pretty much useless (protection, etc. see when they go to the Chantry in Redcliffe to ask for holy symbols to protect against the undead. The Andrastean faith does not believe in such things).


	41. Invitation

Anders opened the scrap of paper without thinking anymore. It was paper, this time, but not the creamy thick rag that Elthina liked to use, and not the scraped parchment that Lowtowners more often than not preferred. It read, “Confessional. Midweek. Fourteenth bell.”

Huh. Odd, but Anders was uncertain as to what made him come to that conclusion. “Sebastian?” he handed the piece to the Chantry brother.

Sebastian scratched his head, “Elthina did not write this.”

Relief at being validated showed in Anders’ face. “Not her handwriting?”

“You should know that by now,” Sebastian went on, “I do not recognize the script. And it would be unlikely for Elthina to set an appointment with you when you were there this morning. She would give you time to work through your penance. Who brought this?”

“Urchin,” Anders said. “Hmmmm,” Anders tapped those stained fingers on the desk.

“Hmmmm?” Sebastian asked, mostly to hide the clench of his stomach. Would he ever be brave again? Would he ever be able to deal with trouble without those pangs of anxiety?

“Hmmmm!” Anders raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide, making a face as though Sebastian was a child to be humored.

“You know it’s a,” Sebastian started.

“Trap,” Anders finished for him, “Why yes. Yes, I believe it is. You know what Hawke tells us about traps?”

Sebastian swallowed, “Set them off,” he did not sound thrilled by the prospect, “What are you going to do?”

…

The Chantry was not busy. The man who entered quietly did not stand out. Soft high boots, buckled with a ridiculous number of fastenings, were all that showed beneath the sand colored cloak. To be fair, it was a chilly day, a small amount of wind coming off the waterfront, and many had their hoods pulled up against the draught. The tall figure did not walk straight to the confessional at midday, but stopped to genuflect and light one of the tall red candles, spending a moment in prayer before bowing. 

It was not possible to see inside the overly deep hood. Also not odd, as confession was not really anyone’s business but the confessor, and the person seeking to attain a better state of grace. Tall, thin, male, he quietly opened the cabinet like door to the confessional, and took a seat there on the slight wooden bench attached to the wall. The voice, pitched high, and with a slight Ferelden accent, spoke to the presence behind the grill, “You wished to speak with me?”

“I do,” the contralto was in obvious imitation of Elthina, “Have you given thought to your penance?”

The cloaked figure bowed his head, “I have. It is no easy task to make reparations for killing so many at a distance.” He might have sworn an oath that the figure in the next booth was jumping in the seat. A banging was heard from that wooden box, an obvious knocking, and the door to his wooden booth was jerked open. A shining glove of plate mail grasped the neck of the cloak and drew the man from the cabinet, choking.

There was a disturbance down in the Sanctuary. Elthina could hear it from her office, echoing down the polished flags of the hallway. Rising and following the sounds, Elthina glided down the wide stairs to see Templars surrounding a figure on the ground. The flash of a smite shone sharp and creating after flashes when she blinked. 

Revered Mother Adele met Elthina on the steps, obviously surprised to see the Grand Cleric proceeding down. Elthina sought patience from the Maker frequently when dealing with the Revered Mother, a recent transplant from a small Chantry in Orlais to replace Petrice.

Elthina privately thought, well between herself and the Maker, that Adele’s thick accent sounded like the villainous Orlesian temptress in a bad Ferelden play. This made her easier to underestimate. Bad policy to discount someone because they, deliberately and with some skill Elthina thought, played the fool.

“Grand Cleric!” Adele was breathless. Perhaps this woman needed a course in exercise. Carrying supplies to the needy in Lowtown might suffice. “Come quickly! We have caught a dangerous criminal!”

Elthina masked her surprise. Calmly, “In the commission of crime?”

“No, but he has admitted to murder!” Adele gushed, her eyes unnaturally sharp while watching Elthina’s face.

Elthina nodded thoughtfully, “I will need more information. for now, let us see your suspect.”

A small, crowd seemed the wrong word to use in describing it, bunch of people pressed against a shining ring of Templars, six of them. The sixth was kneeling on a prone and unresisting figure. Elthina walked, unhurried, a path opened for her through the congregants. “Serrah Dugan, please clear the Sanctuary, and have the gentleman brought to the anteroom, along with all of the,” Elthina paused, “Chantry personnel involved.”

Elthina took a few moments to speak with the mostly human crowd as they were dispersed. No doubt this frustrated the Templars handling crowd control. The Grand Cleric hoped that a calm demeanor and unhurried pace would give the lie to any rumors circulating. 

Inside the anteroom there was the flash of another Smite as Dugan’s assistant closed the door behind the Grand Cleric and the Revered Mother. Elthina looked at the still cloaked figure, each arm immobilized by a beefy Templar. What were they feeding those in the order? It could not just be the plate mail. “Sebastian?” Elthina prompted.

Shaking the hood back, finally, auburn waves only partly in disarray, Sebastian Vael put on an aggrieved look, “Your Grace, I must protest at this treatment.”

“Revered Mother Adele, this is Sebastian Vael, on leave from the Kirkwall Chantry. Please tell me what makes you think that he is a wanted criminal guilty of murder?” Elthina was still calm, but there was an edge.

Adele was taken aback, and her accent came out strongly, “He said that he had killed many from a distance! I was certain,” a break and quick thinking, “Surely he is an apostate, using his vile powers on poor innocents!”

The Grand Cleric, in full authority, rounded on the Revered Mother, “Please reassure me that something said in the confessional was not the cause of this disgraceful behavior?”

“The forms were not observed. It was simply said within the confessional booth, though no confession was requested according to the law,” Adele wriggled.

The Sisters and Templars in the room had the grace to look embarrassed. The men holding Sebastian’s arms attempted to subtly drop those, perhaps they thought it would seem they had been assisting a man too weak to stand. Every man here, and woman, knew Sebastian. Some of them had gone to him for Confession. It seemed that these Chantry workers did, indeed, know who was in authority here. It was not Mother Adele. “Brother Sebastian,” Elthina’s edge was growing, “Please enlighten Mother Adele as to the meaning of your words.”

Sebastian gave a courtly bow, his manner and speech obviously from the upper strata of society, “Revered Mother, I assist the Champion of Kirkwall in the capture of wanted criminals. The monies I receive from the bounties are put to further my current ministry in Darktown. I am not, in fact, a mage. I am an archer of some skill.”

“Surely,” Adele paused, “Why is he no longer working in the Chantry?”

Elthina looked to Sebastian for permission, then, “Sebastian was attacked a year ago, and asked for a sabbatical to work through issues resulting from the assault.”

“He is in league with the apostates working in Darktown! He is a Mage Sympathizer!” Adele was not intelligent enough to have concocted a decent trap, and she did not know when to apologize and quit.

Possibly her words would create some damage, although the Templars and Sisters had the honesty to look mortified. They did know about Ostea, and about Hawke’s rescue of Sebastian, and the rumors were no doubt hideous. Elthina spoke dryly, “Adele,” it was said sharply, “Sebastian was sexually assaulted by a blood mage. Why on Thedas would you think he was in league with apostates using blood magic?”

Sebastian relished Elthina’s words. It still bothered him, the memories of Ostea. Hearing Elthina speak so bluntly hurt, but it was more the a lancing of an infected member that an original wound. What he relished about them though, was that Elthina had spoken literal truth. What Adele and the others did with that literal truth was up to them.

Adele was aghast, “He is a blood thrall then!” the accusation was theatrical and horrified.

Elthina turned and examined Sebastian. It was not quite as theatrical, but it served to draw the Templars eyes to him as well. “I have just seen Chantry Templars smite him twice with no reaction, in spite of the pain. He has been examined by Knight Captain Cullen, as well as the best Healers we have available in Kirkwall, and they have all certified him as clear of any form of spell or control. The blood mage who captured him is dead.

Serrah Dugan, did Brother Sebastian resist you?”

“No, Your Grace,” Dugan had turned bright red, and his face clashed with the Templar uniform.

Elthina’s attention turned back to the woman, “Sister Adele,” and she was corrected, “Revered Mother, Your Grace.”

Elthina’s gaze was not angry. It was implacable, “Sister,” emphasized, “Adele. Please wait at my office door in an attitude of penance. I will be with you,” a pause, “shortly.”

A message to her staff. A very clear message to the Templars who had listened to Adele, and to the Sisters who were here, quite likely simply because they had wanted to hear the gossip. Adele bit her lip, red patches high on her rounded cheeks as she bobbed a curtsy and left the room.

The Grand Cleric’s look swept the room. Every member of the Chantry attending knew they would be remembered, and this was not the way they wanted to come to the attention of the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall. What followed was a controlled, but obviously passionate dressing down on the sanctity of the confessional, the deadly sin of gossip and it’s equally vicious sin of taking items out of context, and Elthina’s disappointment in the behavior of her staff. 

Sebastian kept his face blank, listening to every word, and taking those to heart personally as well. One does not learn just from one’s own mistakes, but also from the errors of others. The Chantry brother was also aware that he had contributed to the sin, had been part of a deception. That he had done so in defence of Anders did not change the fact that he had actually deceived. 

The spark of having fooled them all would not go away. It gave him some satisfaction as Elthina dismissed the others, and made an appointment with Ser Dugan for after she had dealt with Revered, no, Sister... Adele. Once they had left, and the solid door was closed, Elthina turned to Sebastian. “Anders?” she asked.

Sebastian gave a sheepish smile, “Hawke tells us that a trap should be tripped.”

“I see,” it was dry.

“I, or we rather, were concerned when we got a note requesting a meeting,” and Sebastian passed over the paper.

Elthina nodded. She looked up, looked at him, “How are you, Sebastian?”

Sebastian smiled, “The better for seeing you, Your Grace,” in his strongest brogue.

“I have missed you,” it was an admission.

Another smile, and then, “I should be home soon, Elthina,” and Sebastian realized that it was the truth.

Elthina sighed and closed her eyes, “We will have much to talk about when you come back. Won’t we?”

“Aye,” Sebastian said, “That we will.”


	42. Deception

Sister Adele Laurent despised hauling goods down the steps to Lowtown like a beast of burden. It was an offence against the Chantry itself that she should be asked, and a humiliating punishment. She paused, leaning against a somewhat clean wall, breathing heavily. There were others who would have served the purpose more appropriately, Lay Sisters and Brothers, the common people who attended to the needs of the Chantry, servants. That woman should never have been made Grand Cleric. 

It would be a pleasure to be part of her downfall.

Adele still seethed at the words the Grand Cleric had directed at her, lectured at her, humility, care, responsibility. Elthina had told the Sister that she would take on Brother Sebastian’s responsibilities for now. In addition to pandering to the poor Adele was to transcribe the Chantry Brother’s writings in the library when she was not about charity work in Lowtown. What made the task worse was to hear the praises of Brother Sebastian Vael sung at each and every place Adele stopped. It had been only two days. “But Brother Sebastian always stays and won’t you?” the refrain was nauseating in the repetition. 

This after Brother Sebastian had been on his ‘sabbatical’ for nearly a year. At first Adele had tried to gather information, “Please tell me about Brother Sebastian. I am interested!”

The litany of masochism became too much. Adele had researched Brother Sebastian, of the Starkhaven Vaels. A prince, on his hands and knees scrubbing the floors in a soup kitchen, cleaning vomit from an epidemic of the flu, singing the chant to the dying poor, carrying supplies to aid the refugees in Darktown. The man was either truly naive to think that this was how a Chantry Brother behaved, or broken in some fashion long before his ‘kidnapping’. 

Adele could not see how anyone raised in Court could be politically so naive. Thus it must be an act, one that Elthina and he were performing for some reason of their own. Elthina rang the bell, and her pet prince ran to serve. What he was doing in Darktown must have some political significance, though it would be up to wiser heads to find what it was. Sadly there had been nothing that Adele could discover in their behavior that was useful. The Grand Cleric and the Prince were enormously discrete, and no hint of salacious rumor clung to either of them. Which was not possible. They must both be very clever.

Adele flashed a bright smile to this Lirene woman, Ferelden and proud to be, in spite of their mongrel status here in Kirkwall. Indeed, Fereldens were well named ‘Dog Lords’. Orlais would gather them into the fold again, soon enough, and put them back into their kennels. The upstart King Alistair and his commoner Queen would no longer set themselves against the Templar Order on the subject of mages, nor on the rights of the Chantry to supercede civil law. 

The plain woman’s answering smile was polite, no more. Turning from the shop Adele made her way down and over and up and around until she reached the towering, oppressive masses of the forge district. A plain door, a quiet knock, and she was allowed in to a small room, a buffer between outer Kirkwall, and what lay within. The doorguard was large, well formed, and had eyes of stone, very different from the Templars in the Kirkwall Chantry. Adele preferred this one to those. Though to think of it, there were many in the Gallows who had this look as well. It was the look of power, different from the tiny Chantry that Adele had served in rural Orlais. The Templars there had been soft, too friendly with the common folk, and unwilling to force them into giving the Chantry it’s due.

Adele was allowed in through the next door. The change in atmosphere was welcome. Crimson hangings hid the stone walls, carpets covered the floor, and Adele knelt upon them before a large carved stone chair, “Revered Mother!”

A hand was extended, and Adele kissed the intricately carved gold ring sitting upon a carefully manicured finger. “Sister Adele,” that made her wince, “We expected you two days ago.”

“I beg pardon, Revered Mother. I have been assigned new duties, and this was the soonest I was able to get away to speak with you,” Sister Adele was not theatrical, it was not the moment.

“Yes, we have heard about your,” the voice was dripping with disapproval, “mis-step. It was a clumsy and poorly thought out plan, Adele. Do not think to do any such on your own initiative. That is not why you were placed here.”

Frightened, Adele murmured, “No, Revered Mother.”

“Your demotion has removed your access to the Grand Cleric’s quarters and effects. This is a step back for all of us,” it was said kindly, and that made Adele all the more frightened, “However, there is work that you can do from this new position. 

I will give you information that I wish to be placed among the townsfolk and the people of the Chantry. You will do what you can to secure their good will before dispersing it. To do so immediately would be foolish. Anything you say now would be taken as the grumbling of a punished child.

More importantly, you will plant these seeds among the Templars of the Gallows when you are sent there, and when they come for services and confession.

Meredith is our great unknowing ally in this. She has already secured martial control of Kirkwall, in spite of the Seneschal and the current Captain of the Guard. It will take very little to encourage her to taking control of the city completely. Elthina is standing in our way, but will be taken care of. When the time is right. 

Do you understand? You are to take no more steps against Elthina. She will be watching, not just you, but for all of us. You have warned her. Do not make the mistake again.”

“Yes, Revered Mother,” fell from tightened lips.

The voice lightened, “Adele, think of this as an Exalted March. We, the true Chantry, will take Kirkwall. It will become a golden city in it’s own right, dedicated to Andraste, and free from the scourge of magic in any form. 

Meredith will annul the Gallows Circle, it is only a matter of time, once Elthina is unable to speak out against it.

But we must be wary. The Seekers are here. The Divine is...I do not know what they are looking for, but I do not think it is us. Nor do I believe it is Meredith. We must give them no reason to suspect our presence or our intent. Do not fail us. Do not fail me.”

“No, Revered Mother,” it was the only answer possible.

“You are dismissed. You will be notified when to come again,” and final as it was, Adele felt a leap of heart that she would be returning, that she was still a part of the Grand Game.

The woman in the chair waited for the Chantry Sister to leave, for the door to close before speaking again, “That one will never survive to greater power.”

Stepping from behind the huge chair a Templar, bearded and handsome, leaned against the arm, “Not safe. If she had given that information to us we might have the apostate. His removal to Orlais and execution would have done much for our cause. Instead she has warned him, his princely lackey, Elthina, and possibly the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Independence of civil authority from the church is a mistake. Kirkwall will learn that. The Champion certainly has by now with the influx of blood mages and demons. You were right, Kirkwall is where we will need to succeed.”


	43. Return to the Chantry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian makes the decision to return to the Chantry.

Now that Sebastian had spoken to Elthina about it - about his return to duties at the Chantry - the conversations with Anders on magic began to take on more importance. “Anders, if connection to the Fade is a gift from the Maker, a gift to the second born of the Maker, then if we remove that link, then we are trespassing on the Maker,” Sebastian said thoughtfully.

Anders was staring. Sebastian continued, asking, “Is it possible for any man to have some magic? The Chant says that we are all given part of the Fade. Why do some have enough to do magic, and others not enough?”

Truth to tell, Sebastian found the idea of being a mage frightening, something to turn the stomach a bit. He had long since passed by the idea of being able to gain something for nothing, as most people did when thinking of magic. Interaction with Anders, Merrill, and Bethany had further destroyed the illusion that Magic was an easy way to power. If anyone could become a mage, how much more terrifying would it be?

Anders said slowly, “A Templar told me once that the Tranquil still have that part of the Fade within them, so it is not destroying something the Maker gave them,” he sounded subdued. “They still have the magic the Maker gave them. It was just not usable.”

Sebastian argued with the interpretation, “But you sever the link allowing them to return to the Fade, as we all do in sleep? This is what you and Cullen and other Templars have told me. If this is so, they are not able to return to the Fade as the Maker intended. As Andraste sang in The Chant.”

“Preaching to the choir, Sebastian,” Anders tried to smile.

“Yes. But I fear it will not be enough of an argument if I preach it at the Gallows.”

“Sebastian,” Anders put a hand on the Chantry brother's wrist before saying, “Promise me that you will not start preaching heresy to Meredith Stannard. Imprisonment or death are not the way to help us.”

“And yes,” Sebastian threw it back in the mage’s face, “I know that you have planned much the same in the recent past.”

A deep breath, no hint of blue or red in his eyes, Anders pointed out, “Someone stopped me. Learn from my mistake.”

…

Sebastian wondered. After Anders left, he thought about what his life would have been like without the mage’s interference. Of course, if Anders had not been there, Sebastian would have remained a broken shell after Ostea’s assault. 

But if Ostea's attack had never occurred? Would Sebastian have grown old in the Chantry doing the same things over and over that he’d done before? Old Brother Sebastian, tending Kirkwall, attending to Elthina’s funeral pyre, then moving on to work with whomever the Divine appointed to the Grand Cleric position in Kirkwall. Working with the poor, singing the Chant until crippled by arthritis, and dying in his narrow bed? Shipped off before that to whatever post the new Grand Cleric chose if he had not worked out to her specifications?

But then, if Sebastian had not suffered Ostea, then he would never have been seconded to the Clinic, would never have stopped Anders, Justice, and Vengeance. How would he have handled Elthina’s assassination? The devastation of the Chantry? Sebastian knew. He would have done everything in his power to kill Anders. No question.

Well. Perhaps there was a blessing to being raped by Ostea after all. It was thought with bitterness and some measure of anger. Who was Sebastian to be angry at the way things were? One took what was handed, and made the best, trying to change what could be changed.

Best way to look at it, really.

…

Anders snorted as Sebastian came into the room, examining the instrument in his hands. “A lute? What will I do with a lute?”

Sebastian looked at the golden wooden curves before answering, “I have no idea. Where did it come from?”

“Hawke,” Anders answered as he drew long fingers down the loose strings, making a jangle of discord. “I never wanted to learn to play this. The Chant? I can sing that. An instrument? It does not work for me.”

“Give it to Lirene then,” Sebastian suggested, “If she can sell it, well and good. Or perhaps she can find someone who plays.”

Lirene discovered that young Walter could play. Not perfectly, but enough so that a master could be found to take him on as an apprentice. The young man took Cricket with him. They were the last of the Fereldan children to find a home, the oldest of those Lirene had fostered now that their Eveline was gone.

It was, for Sebastian, an answer to prayer.

...

“Fenris,” Sebastian leaned on the wine-stained mantle, looking down into the fire, “Vengeance is a problem.”

He heard his friend’s laugh in the comfortable chair behind him. “This problem is not new, Sebastian.

"Has he been causing you trouble at the clinic?”

How easily they all had gotten used to those words being people, and not concepts. “Justice and I have come to a... working arrangement. But, when Vengeance is in charge Anders does not speak to me.” Sebastian admitted, “That is not so much an issue.

"I fear for Elthina and I fear for Anders.”

Fenris hummed, then asked, “Still? You do not fear for yourself?”

“I hope I would be able to figure out when to run away” - Sebastian spoke as one who had thought on the topic - “And Anders has no such possibility. One can not run from ones self.” It was a thought that was much on the Chantry brother's mind.

...

Sebastian woke up with a woman in his arms in a very comfortable bed. He recognized the room, a tavern close to home, and the woman, he’d been with her before. Last night must have been very good. She’d have thrown him out else. And his father had not sent the guard searching for him. Also very good.

There was nothing better than waking up spooning, with the ability to take advantage of the situation. Sebastian ran his hand over the curves, arse up to tits before sending it back down to give the girl a bit of fun before he took his own pleasure. In an improbably short period she was gasping and moaning in his arms, well on her way to orgasm. His own came with hers against the plump cheeks sliding around his hardness.

Sebastian woke up on an uncomfortable cot in the darkness. Wet, sticky, and filled with a mild case of chagrin. Still and all, it was nice to know it still worked.

And of course, he was not quite alone. Turning his head he encountered Anders’ grinning face across the foot distance between their beds, “Have a nice dream?”

...

“Oh, Sugar,” Jethan said, “You don’t need to worry about that. No one saw you come in.”

Sebastian started. Nervous, for some odd reason, he thought. He had spent enough time in brothels as a young man. The Blooming Rose was just another cat house. No need to be frightened.

Perhaps the reason was not so odd. He was Brother Sebastian, a member of the Chantry. It was unseemly for him to be here now, where an indiscrete visitor might spread the word totally out of context and cause trouble for years to come. In spite of church custom this place catered to the Templars as well. And like any other human organization, Templars tended to be gossips about Chantry folk.

Then too, Anders was not here. Time to stop looking to the Mage for protection. For what it was worth, Anders was outside of his own comfort zone tonight, having been invited to spend the evening and the night with Isabela and Fenris. Sebastian was trying not to speculate on what would occur there.

Sebastian sighed. “Thank you,” he smiled at the Elvhen prostitute, including the woman at his side as well. Lilah was younger than he, but not a child. She had blonde hair. Sebastian suspected that it was unnaturally colored, and was absurdly rounded all over. Sebastian would have been very interested in her over a decade ago. His body had the good sense to be interested in her now, though it was hopeful that his mind was automatically overruling that attraction. 

“So,” Lilah chirped, “Anders asked us to talk to you!”

...

Sebastian was sitting at the surgery table with a mug of hot tea well sweetened when Anders finally wandered into the clinic, very early in the morning. The mage barred the door behind him, hair like a haystack and new clothing in disarray as though hastily thrown on. The smile, though, that Anders gave the man at the table was blindingly happy. Not a look that Sebastian had ever seen on Anders before.

“Had a good night, did you?” he asked, pouring a mug of tea for the mage, adding a scant spoonful of honey.

“A tremendous night. A long, and enjoyable and strenuous night. And an invitation to stay,” Anders took a sip of the hot tea, lost in remembering.

Remembering Isabela’s “You don’t have to leave, sweetness” and Fenris’ so serious nod of agreement. 

Anders had things to process. The Clinic was a good place to do that, buried in work, thinking his way through. “How was your night?” he came to the present and dove back into the conversation.

Sebastian scratched the back of his neck, “It was... interesting.”

“Hmmm,” Anders grinned, “Quite the ambivalent word.”

“It’s just,” Sebastian searched for the words, “I have never actually had conversations with prostitutes before, Anders. Taken confession, told them stories of my own, but not listened to them in return.”

Anders nodded, “Easier not to see them as people that way.”

“I’m aware,” Sebastian frowned.

Anders gave the man a cosy pat on the arm, and was clearly mimicking an older woman when he asked, “And how did the discussion go?”

Laughter sprayed the mage with honeyed tea, “Maker, Anders! Don’t do that!”

The Healer laughed along in spite of his shower, “Well, how did it go? Did they talk about their experiences? Did they offer? Did you enjoy the offer? Or are you still feeling frightened about the idea?”

“Well. Yes. Yes. No, or rather, I enjoyed the offer, but did not take them up on it. And no,” Sebastian tossed a towel at Anders, which spread and covered the man’s face.

“Wait,” Anders was clearly trying to remember what questions he’d asked, “Okay. So, is your desire for sex healing? Or are you repressing it again?”

Sebastian sighed, “Everything seems to be in working order, Anders. And I did not break my vow of celibacy. Much to Jethann’s loudly proclaimed disappointment. 

"We sat, drank wine, and talked. It was,” what had it been?

“Enjoyable. Lilah is very attractive, and Jethann has quite a sense of humor, once you get past his very arch delivery,” Yes, Sebastian could say he’d enjoyed the evening.

Anders looked at the table, “Did they discuss their,” a moment, “darker histories?”

“Yes,” Sebastian cocked his head, “We shared stories. They did not mock. Did not second guess. I extended the courtesy to them as well.”

“You make it sound like a game of Old Chantry Mother,” Anders teased.

Sebastian started to laugh, “More like ‘Never Have I Ever’ instead. Only they wanted to know what my take on rape, personal rights, and the sex trade was from extensive reading of the chant.”

That made Anders smile, “I would have fit right in, then?”

“Definitely,” another laugh, then patiently, “Anders. Is it time for us to speak of my returning to the Chantry?”

“Might be,” Anders was watching him, “Didn’t you tell Elthina you would be home soon?”

Sebastian took another sip of tea, “Yes. I think it is time for me to go back.”

Was that a look of sadness on the mage’s face? Disappointment? Certainly Sebastian felt an urge to stay here, in what had become a haven for him. He would be returning to an insurmountable task in the Chantry. Life would be difficult. Things would never be the same.

The challenges he met here were not what he would face at home. And yet, it was home. And he did belong there. Even if Elthina sent him elsewhere, Sebastian knew that his place was with the Chantry, helping to move it toward …

What? Where was he going? How was he going to make change happen? Best to have at least a general idea before he left the physical freedom of working at the clinic. Time to establish a vision, a mission. Part of that would be using what he’d learned about mages from Anders. And Merrill. And Hawke. And Fenris. And Isabela. Because no one way, one point of view was going to be sufficient.

“Also,” Sebastian was unsure, “I did want to speak to you about something else as well.”

“What could you possibly be afraid to ask me now?” Anders’ face was a study in amusement.

Sebastian took a breath, “Money. I have money for the Clinic.”

Anders gave him a slow blink. “What kind of money? I thought you had taken a vow of poverty. And I know that you did not inherit from Starkhaven. Isn’t your cousin running things there now? Has he granted you a stipend?”

“Ostea’s hoard. I have it. Or rather Elthina does,” Sebastian cleared his throat, “She is holding it for me. Bran and the courts awarded it to me for damages. Aveline cleaned it thoroughly. No blood on the money itself. Not anymore,” Anders’ expression of revulsion was actually a tiny bit funny, “but I would like to clean it further by gifting it to the Clinic.”

“How much money are we speaking of?” Anders asked, guarded.

Sebastian measured in the air, “A small chest. Mixed coinage, silver and copper. I do not remember how much it was. Elthina told me, but it did not seem worth dealing with at the time. Enough money that I would feel uncomfortable about hiding it here in Darktown.”

Anders grinned, “Yes, The Apostate Healer’s Hidden Treasure would make quite the story for the Carta and the Coterie, wouldn’t it?

So what are you suggesting? And doesn’t everything that is awarded to you go to the Chantry? How is it yours to decide?”

A nod from Sebastian, “Elthina left the determination up to me. I would prefer to dispose of it before I return to the Chantry itself for a variety of reasons. Elthina told me she was tired of having it clutter up her office. She was using it as a footstool for a while.”

Anders laughed, which brought a smile from Sebastian. “I am suggesting,” how to put this politely, or at least reasonably, “that we put the money in an account with one of the banking and merchanting houses. Open a line of credit and give several people access to it. Which of your people would you like to be responsible for it?”

“Lirene,” that was immediate.

“Hawke as well?” Sebastian asked, “It should be more than one person.”

Anders nodded. “You realise,” Sebastian said, “Why I did not suggest the account be in your name?”

Anders’ snort was not bitter, “It will be in the Clinic’s name, so that the Templars can not take the money, impound it, if they take me. Lirene will be a responsible advocate, even if I,” a hitch, “am not available to manage the clinic.”

“No one from the Chantry should have access to the funds, Anders,” Sebastian added.

Anders cocked his head and looked at the Chantry brother curiously, “Why not you? Why not Elthina?”

Sebastian swallowed, “Sister Adele. That plot was not solely against you, Anders.”

“I am aware,” Anders said blandly, “I am not unintelligent”

“If,” swallowing again, “Elthina and I fall, we would not want to take you with us.”

That had not occurred to the Mage, Sebastian could tell it from the blank look, or was it shock. “Sebastian,” Anders started, then stopped.

“They knew she was meeting with you, Anders. She knew what might happen. It was Elthina’s choice. And my choice. I could always have turned you in, you know,” Sebastian thought about it, “And Elthina did not. For my sake. At least at first.”

The mage’s voice was choked, “Having friends is not always easy.”

Sebastian smiled, “No. But it is infinitely preferable to the opposite.”

“You are still set on combatting Kirkwall itself? In the matter of mages and the Gallows?” Anders had gulped down the choked sensation, “I do not ask you to martyr yourself for us, Sebastian.”

“The Maker guide us that it will not come to that. You are not to do anything,” Sebastian did not laugh, “Explosive either.”

“I can not promise that,” Anders’ eyes glinted in the lamp light, “But I will hold to my promise to you. I will not make a move against Elthina, or the Chantry building itself.”

“I could ask for so much more,” Sebastian pointed out.

Anders laughed at that, “But would you receive it?”

“Who knows,” Sebastian smiled, “We must move forward one small step at a time.

And now? For today?”

They said it together, “Time to open the Clinic!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a side story for this (Isabela, Fenris, Anders) that I will post on Sunday, then a second story that will start the following Wednesday.
> 
> If people are interested.


End file.
